CO 

en 


he  Chameleon 


JEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY 


VIUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  St.,  New  York 


THE  CHAMELEON 


A  (Esxmth^  in  ^i^t^t  Aria 


» 


BY 


JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY 

(MRS.  UONEL  MARKS) 


COPTKIGHT.  1917.  BY  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY 


AU  RiskU  Katerrc-I 


New  York 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHEB 

WEST  88TH   STREET 


London 
SAMUEL  FRENCH.  LTD. 
26  Southampton  Stbebt 

STRAND 


CopyrlfiTht.  1917.  by  Idsephine  Preston  VeBhadf 


Caution.— Thi's'tflayMl^ fully  protected  under  the 
Copyright  laws  of  the  United  States  and  is  sub- 
ject to  royalty  when  produced  by  amateurs  or 
professionals.  Applications  for  the  right  to  pro- 
duce "The  Chameleon"  should  be  made  to 
Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  St.,  New  York, 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


THE    CHAMELEON. 


CHARACTERS. 

Justin   Aurelius   Hopefar  Philosopher;  young, 

unwed 
RuFus  Hopefar     1  Unphilosophic;  but  wed 

y  His  brothers. 
Walter  Hopefar  J  Unphilosophic;  Unwed 

Rev.  Ingraham  Sylvester.  .Reverend,  but  not  so 

very 
QuENTiN  Carrick A  Man  of  Letters 

James  Roberts  Thomas,  Ph.  D. 
Major  Kilmayne 

Thomas The  Hopefars'  butler 

HoNORA  Thorpe A  New  Woman  and  Young 

Rose  Hopefar Young;  not  New 

Mrs.  Randal  Van  Wyck Never  New 

Mrs.  Hopefar-Shuttleworth Never  Old 


u.-oU*J 


THE  CHAMELEON 

Place: — Out  of  town.  ' 

Time: — The  present. 

Three  months  elapse  between  Acts  I  and  H.  Acts 
n  and  III  are  concerned  with  the  events  of 
thirty-six  hours. 

Act      I.  Morning.     How   truth   is  green   and 
lovely. 

Act    II.  Afternoon.     How   truth  is  gray  and 
dismal. 

Act  III.  Scene  I.    Night.    How  truth  is  rain- 
how,  truth  is  piebald. 

Scene  II.  Morning.  How  you  may 
catch  a  Chameleon,  if  you  get  up 
early. 


Scene  throughout: — The  Hopefar  Library. 


THE  CHAMELEON 


ACT  I. 


Scene: — The  Hopefars'  Library.  A  large,  old- 
fashioned  place,  evidently  built  out  in  a  sep- 
arate wing,  jrom  the  house,  into  which  it  opens, 
left  at  back,  with  a  few  steps,  and  a  doorway. 
The  only  other  entrance  is  the  centre-door,  at 
back,  (of  glass,  with  straight  hangings)  which 
gives  upon  the  garden,  r.  and  l.  of  this  door, 
French  windows  opening  on  a  terrace  walk 
with  a  high  hedge.    Book-lined  walls. 

Right,  an  open  fireplace;  and  r.  and  l.  of  the  fire- 
place, two  Chinese  cabinets,  with  drawers  and 
pigeon-holes.  Near  by,  but  up  stage  at  present, 
a  long,  high-backed  sofa,  the  end  near  the  win- 
dows concealed  by  a  screen  folded  across,  r.  c. 
Dow7t,  some  half-unpacked  book-boxes,  cov- 
ered with  foreign  labels. 

Left,  below  the  house-steps,  a  large  bust  of  Hermes 
on  a  pedestal.  Towards  the  front,  a  writing- 
table  strewn  with  work. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  the  garden-door  stands 
open,  and  one  window,  r.  It  is  a  bright  June 
morning. 

(Enter  l.  from  the  house.  Rose  Hopefar;  and  the 
Reverend  Sylvester  with  his  hat  and  stick. 


6  THE  CHAMELEON. 

He  beams  with  all  the  satisfaction  of  forty- 
five  and  well-to-do.  Rose  is  young  and  discon- 
tented.) 

Reverend.  — Not  at  all, — not  at  all !  Really  a 
pleasure,  I  assure  you.  If  only  you  had  told  me  all 
about  it  much  earlier  you  know,  I  could,  perhaps — 
ah — have  set  the  matter  before  her  in  its — ah — true 
light.  She  has  such  a  singularly  fresh  and  candid — 
ah — nature;  it  is  sure  to — ah — respond  to  the  can- 
did zvord  in  time. 

Rose.     {With  a  sigh  of  darkest  prophecy)     Ah! 

Reverend.  And  it  is  with  words  as  with  stitches, 
dear  Lady,     (l.)    A  word  in  time — saves  Nine! 

Rose.  (Earnestly)  But  what  would  be  tlie 
use — Oh !  Nine  swear-words,  you  mean. 

Reverend.     (Hastily)    Not  at  all, — not  at 

Rose.  Do  tell  her  that.  I  felt  sure  your  sense  of 
humor  would  appeal  to  her.  She  used  to  have  so 
much.  (Looking  towards  the  terrace)  She  ought 
to  be  here  by  this.  It's  growing  late. — Ah,  you  will 
persuade  her !  It's  a  terrible  thing  to  all  of  us,  that 
she  should  have  thrown  him  over.     (Looking  out) 

Reverend.  (Crosses  r.)  Of  course,  of  course. 
Poor  Walter. 

Rose.  (Comes  down)  And  aside  from  all 
graver  considerations,  you  know,  a  June  wedding 
would  have  been  so  lovely !  I  must  say,  (Sits  l)  it 
was  a  curious  time  to  jilt  him. — I  had  talked  about 
her  as  my  sister-in-law  for  months.  And  the  brides- 
maids' gowns  were  entirely  planned. 

Reverend.    Not  really ! 

Rose.  Their  hats,  too.  I  designed  them.  And 
Justin  came  back  from  Egypt  for  the  wedding. 

Reverend.  Justin  home?  And  with  a  new  book 
ready  ? 

Rose.  Oh,  that  book! — Yes,  almost  ready.  He 
came  early,  to  be  here  well  before.    And  while  he 


THE  CHAMELEON.  7 

was  sailing  home,  for  his  own  brother's  wedding, 
Honora  changed  her  mind.  Think  of  it: — their 
Hats!— 

Reverend.  It  sounds  alarmingly  unfeminine. 
What  does  Justin  think  of  her? 

Rose.  He  hasn't  seen  her.  He  came  only  yester- 
day, you  see;  and  he's  deep  in  that  Book.  It's  all 
very  nice — rather  piquant,  indeed,  to  have  a  v/ell- 
known  man  of  letters  for  a  brother-in-law.  People 
want  to  meet  him  and  all  that.  But  you  can't  ex- 
pect him  to  be  useful  in  other  ways.  What  do  you 
think  his  new  book  is  called? — ''Aspects  of  Truth." 

Reverend.  Him. — "  Aspects  " — Essentially  mod- 
em. 

Rose.  As  if  we  should  ever  know  what  Truth 
was,  if  we  stopped  to  consider  its  "  aspects ". 
Surely  (Earnestly)  it's  the  aspects  of  things  that 
obscure  the  truth.  I  mean  to  say,  you  can  only  be 
sure  of  the  Truth,  when  you  speak  on  impulse.  For 
if  you  stop  to  think  it  out  at  all,  you're  so  apt  to  say 
something  else.    Do  you  see  what  I  mean  ? 

Reverend.  Quite  so, — quite  so.  (He  inspects  r. 
some  of  the  unpacked  books,  title  by  title,  with  dis- 
approval) 

Rose.  Oh,  these  writers  of  books,  what  do  they 
know  about  Life?  And  the  serious  side  ot  the 
matter  is: — do  you  know  what  explains  the  whole 
thing  ? 

Reverend.  (Turns  and  sits  on  step-ladder) 
Dear  lady,  which?    Life  or  Honora? 

Rose.    Honora,  jilting  my  own  brother-in-law! 

Reverend.    Give  me  a  clue. 

Rose.    Honora  is  writing  a  book. 

Reverend.    Honora ! 

Rose.  I  knew  you'd  think  just  that.  And  so  do 
L  Of  course  I  always  knew  she  was  fearfully 
clever.  But  I  was-  too  fond  of  her  ever  to  believe  it 
would  take  that  shape.    I  thought  she  would  marry. 


8  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Reverend.  A  book,  dear  me!  What  does  she 
call  it? 

Rose.    "  The  Chameleon,"  she  says. 

Reverend.    "  The  Chameleon!" 

Rose.  And  of  course  you  know  Honora  well 
enough  to  know  it  can  have  nothing  in  the  world  to 
do  with  chameleons. 

Reverend.    Quite  so. 

Rose.  She  doesn't  like  them,  you  know.  She 
never  would  wear  the  one  I  gave  her  that  season, 
when  we  all  wore  them,  hopping  on  a  little  gold 
chain.  But  the  serious  side  of  the  matter  is  that  she 
never  would  have  thrown  Walter  over,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  that  book.  She  was  turning  literary;  and 
we  never  saw  it!  And  here  she  has  been,  reading, 
reading,  writing,  writing,  hours  at  a  time ;  and  mak- 
ing up  her  mind  that  she  didn't  care  to  marry  Wal- 
ter after  all.  Of  course,  we're  close  neighbors; 
and  she  always  did  like  this  old  place.  Nobody  uses 
it  when  Justin  is  away.  And  I'm  devoted  to 
Honora.  But — {Sees  a  card  on  the  table,  and  picks 
it  up,  interrupting  herself)  *'  Mr.  Carrick."  What 
a  pity:  and  I  was  close  by,  out  in  the  summer- 
house.  As  I  was  saying;  even  for  such  an  old 
friend,  it  was  cold-blooded  of  her,  to  sit  here  writ- 
ing herself  out  of  that  state  of  mind ;  practically  to 
jilt  Walter  in  his  own  library!  Why  doesn't  she 
come?  {She  stirs  about,  righting  small  objects  on 
the  table)  I  did  want  to  see  her  settled,  and  happy. 
I  even  wanted  her,  really  wanted  her  in  our  family. 
And  now  she  is  going  to  be  literary !  {She  goes  to- 
wards the  screen  to  fold  it  back)  How  warm  it  is ! 
And  everything  upsidedown. 

Reverend.    Allow  me. 
{They  fold  it  back  together,  disclosing  the  settle, 
which  stands  with  its  back  towards  the  audi- 
ence, slanted  r.  up  c.    At  the  upper  end  of  it  is 
visible  the  top  of  a  large  white  garden-hat  with 


THE  CHAMELEON.  9 

hug  strings  of  mull,  and  an  edge  of  scarf.  The 
hat  zuears  an  air  of  lazy  aba^idon.  Both  recoil, 
dismayed.) 

Rose.  Really,  Honora !  I  have  said  nothing  that 
I — that  I  can  possibly  recall.  But  I  think  you  might 
have  spoken  before  this !  (She  turns  superbly,  and 
sweeps  across,  up  the  steps  and  into  the  house,  clos- 
ing the  door.  Sylvester  crosses  after  her;  then 
recovers  his  composure) 

Reverend.  (At  the  house  steps)  Ah,  dear  Mrs. 
Hope  far,  won't  you  stay?  I  beg  of  you.  As  you 
will,  then.  (Urbanely)  Honora  and  I  are  to  have 
a  quiet  little  talk,  and  to  set  things  once  for  all  in 
their  true  light.  The  truth,  the  truth,  at  any  cost! 
(He  regards  the  hat  expectantly,  standing  down  c.) 
Come. — I  was  sure,  my  dear  Child,  that  you  felt  this 
all  more  keenly  than  anyone  seems  to  believe.  Don't 
suffer  in  silence.  Mind  you,  I  don't  wish  to  intrude. 
But  tell  me  all  your  doubts;  and  let  us  resolve  them 
completely.  It  is  never  too  late.  And  with  words — 
(Advances  winningly)  It  is  sometimes  with  v/ords 
as  with  stitches,  Honora.  A  word  in  time  saves 
Nine !  Ha,  ha.  My  dear  girl,  you  are  not  weeping  ? 
(Crosses  r.,  starts;  then  zvith  an  expression  of 
disgust,  removes  the  hat  from  the  parasol-handle 
which  had  held  it  in  place.  There  is  no  one  sit- 
ting there.  He  looks  an  considers)  Hm!  There 
is  a  sound  of  whistling  without.  Schubert's  Unfin- 
ished Symphony  theme.  Rev.  slowly  and  prophet- 
ically) Whistling  girls  and  hens  that  crow ! 
(Enter  c,  from  the  garden,  Justin   Hopefar.    He 

is  a  young  man  of  abundant  cheerfulness  and 
some  distinction.  He  wears  a  straw-hat  and 
carries  a  pipe.) 

Justin.  Sylvester!  How  are  you.  I  would 
have  known  that  back  in  Patagonia. 


10  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Reverend.  Justin,  my  dear  fellow!  I  mistook 
you  for  Honora. 

Justin.  Have  I  changed  so  much?  We  may 
look  alike  for  aught  I  know.  {Lays  hat  on  table) 
I  hear  that  I  must  have  seen  Honora  once,  when  she 
was  small  and  harmless.  But  I  don't  remember. 
And  it  doesn't  matter,  for  it  seems  that  now  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  she  rejects  us  all.  {Relights  his 
pipe)  It  has  set  the  household  by  the  ears  though. 
Are  you  come  to  hold  parley  with  Honora? 

Reverend.  Yes.  She  was  to  see  me  here  a  little 
while  this  morning,  to  see  if  I  could  not  settle  her 
untimely  doubts.  Her  own  family,  you  know  is 
much  distressed.  She  has  no  fault  to  find  with 
Wat;  she  cares  for  no  one  else.  It  must  be  read- 
justed.   But  Where's  Honora? 

Justin.    And  what's  that  flag  of  truce? 

Reverend.  Oh,  that's  her  Hat.  {He  hangs  it  on 
the  white  parasol  and  they  both  inspect  it  dreamily) 

Justin.  Her  Hat,  "  untenanted  of  its  mistress  ?  " 
I  say.  It  fills  me  with  suspense,  somehow. — Is 
Honora  becoming  to  her  Hat? 

Reverend.  Eminently.  But  I  fear  she  is  a  New 
Woman.     {Turns  away) 

Justin.  {Taking  the  parasol  and  lifting  it,  cau- 
tiously) Never  mind.  If  she  keeps  on  wearing 
such  hats.  In  any  case,  I  suspect  the  New  Wo- 
man isn't  new.  She  is  only  more  numerous  at  pres- 
ent. She's  a  thoroughly  logical  outcome.  I  won't 
quarrel  with  her  till  I  understand  her.  .  .  .  Now, 
why  those  long  streamers? 

Reverend.    Can't  imagine. 

Justin.  It's  something  new,  some  hitching  de- 
vice instead  of  apron-strings,  you  may  be  sure.  A 
Hat  without  a  woman ;  like  a  man  without  a  Coun- 
try. A  Hat, — like  the  sleeping  lion,  shorn  of  all  its 
terrors. 


THE  CHAMELEON.  ii 

(Sudden  singing  outside.  Honora  passes  the  win- 
dow up  R.  Justin  guiltily  transfers  the  parasol 
and  hat  to  the  hands  of  Sylvester  who 
clutches  them  absent-mindedly.  They  stand 
still  as  Honora  enters  hatless,  c.  zvith  an  arm- 
ful of  green  balsam  boughs.  She  comes  swing- 
ing in,  exuberantly  and  checks  herself  as  she 
sees  them.) 

Honora.  Oh  !  (She  hastily  goes  to  the  fireplace 
end  deposits  there  the  load  of  greenery;  then  turns 
hack,  dusting  off  her  hands  softly.  Justin  looks  at 
her  fixedly) 

Reverend.  Good-morning,  Honora!  {Jauntily) 
Here    is    Justin,  .  .  .  your    brother-in-law    elect. 

{She  shakes  hands  with  Justin  ;  hut  looking  him  in 
the  eyes,  with  a  smiling  negative  head-shake.) 

Justin.  You  don't  remember  me?  But  please 
stay.    Of  course  I'm  going  away  at  once. 

Honora.  No.  Don't  go  away,  Justin.  It's  a 
strange  kind  of  introduction.  But  you'd  much 
better  stay.  Look  at  the  truth  of  it  from  the  be- 
ginning, and  see  what  kind  of  a  sister  you  are  not 
to  have.  And  you'll  bless  me  for  not  marrying  him. 
Yes,  indeed,  it's  I, — this  is  how  I've  grovv^n  up.  {As 
he  looks  at  her  intently) 

Justin.    I  see.    And  do  you  keep  on  growing? 

Honora.     {Exuberantly)     Forever! 

Reverend.    Hm ! 

Justin.  I  wonder  what  you'll  be  like,  seven 
years  from  now. 

Honora.    Come  and  see;  if  we're  still  neighbors. 

Reverend.  Hm!  My  dear,  Justin,  this  is  all 
very  interesting  to  consider.  But  I  had  an  engage- 
ment to  lunch,  and  whether  they're  still  neighbors 
I  hardly 


12  THE  CHAMELEON. 

HoNORA.  But  surely,  Reverend  dear,  you  don't 
need  to  wear  my  hat? 

(Reverend  still  clutching  the  hat  in  one  hand  and 
the  parasol  in  the  other,  crosses  to  center.) 

Reverend.  I — I — dear  me,  Honora !  I  was  tiy- 
ing  to  fathom  the  mazes  of  your  mind  by —  You 
may  remember  that  I  came  this  morning  to  talk 
with  you  about  certain  distressing 

Justin.    An  revoir!     {Taking  his  own  hat) 

HoNORA.  Don't  go.  Well  then,  just  outside. 
It's  only  right  that  you  should  hear,  if  you  all  think 
I'm  so  unreasonable;  and  that  I  don't  know  my  own 
mind.  I  believe  you'd  be  fair. — And  I  may  need 
you  yet. 

Justin.  You  have  only  to  speak.  (Exit  c.  He 
is  seen  on  the  terrace,  just  outside  the  zvindow  sit- 
ting with  his  pipe) 

Honora.  (Hospitably)  Now  then!  Tell  me 
all  about  how  horrid  I  am ! 

Reverend.  (Sits  down  l.  c.)  Honora,  you  well 
know  that  you  are  singularly  far  from  horrid. — But 
you  are  unreasonable,  untimely  and  exasperat- 
ing. 

Honora.  I?  —  Reverend?  —  Justin!  (Justin 
turns)  No,  no,  Justin ;  it  was  a  weak  appeal.  Rev- 
erend, I  never  heard  you  phrase  anything  so  di- 
rectly. Now,  if  you  would  only  do  that  in  your 
sermons,  you  know.  Reverend  dear,  I'd  come  to 
hear  them — positively  on  week-days.     I  would. 

Reverend.  (Resignedly)  Ah!  Get  around  me, 
now.    Begin ! 

Honora.  Upon  my  word,  why  will  nobody  re- 
spect my  search  for  Truth?  (Justin  wheels  his 
chair  about  and  looks  in)  Why  will  nobody  under- 
stand that  I've  grown  up  suddenly, — tardily,  if  you 
like;  and  that  I  must  needs  seem  mulish  about  all 


^ 


THE  CHAMELEON.  13 

manner  of  things;  what  I  love,  and  what  I 
hate? 

Reverend.    Love?    What  do  you  love,  Honora? 

HoNORA.    I  only  wish  I  knew. 

Reverend.    What  do  you  hate? 

HoNORA.  Pretenses!  Big  or  little.  Compro- 
mise. Old  make-believes.  Life,  at  hear-say.  Half- 
way things,  gray  things,  not  black,  not  white. 
Ever}-thing,  eveiything,  everytliing  except 

Reverend.     What,  Honora? 

HoNORA.  .  .  .  Justin  would  understand.  I  hear 
his  new  book  is  all  about  Aspects  of  Truth. 

Reverend.    Oh,  dear,  dear !     {Impatiently) 

HoNORA.  Well  then,  I've  discovered  myself;  and 
in  a  veiy  different  way.  And  my  discovery  is  a 
longing — a  longing  for  Truth;  in  things  big  and 
little.  Yes,  it's  a  commonplace.  And  yet,  when  I  be- 
gan to  look  about  me,  I  could  see  very  few  things 
in  the  v/orld  that  v/ere  not  boring  and  ugly, — when 
they  might  be  beautiful.  If  you  looked  at  things 
for  yourself,  and-  if  you  said  what  you  meant,  at 
leart  you  could  never  be  bored.  But  people  say  so 
glibly  all  the  time,  what  they  don't  mean.  Now, 
look  at  the  word  "  Obey  "  in  your  own  marriage- 
service. 

Reverend.  Ah,  ah !  At  last,  Nov/  we  have  it. 
{Bcaviing  with  relief  end  condescension)  A  very 
common  objection,  my  dear  girl.  And  as  trifling  as 
it  is  up.rcasonable.  Ah,  this  modern  self-seeking! — 
Admit,  Honora,  that  a  house  must  have  a  Head. 

HoNORA.  {Kindly)  If  you  like.  Indeed,  why 
not? 

Reverend.  You  see,  of  course,  that  a  House 
cannot  have  two  Heads. 

IIoNORA.  Why,  no,  Reverend,  I  don't  see  that,  of 
course,  at  all.  There  was  Cerberus  with  three ;  and 
the  Hydra,  you  know,  with  any  number  of  heads. 
I'm  sure  they  found  uses  for  them  all.    Indeed  there 


14  THE  CHAMELEON. 

are  times,  don't  you  truly  think  now,  when  one  feels 
o-ieself,  rather  short  of  heads? 

Reverend.    Er — er — my  dear,  this  is  trifling. 

HoNORA.  Solemn  earnest. — "  Obey  "  in  such  a 
relation,  at  this  age  of  this  Planet !  To  put  such  a 
moral  indignity  upon  the  free,  all-giving  service  of 
— of  love ! 

Reverend.    Free  love!! 

HoNORA.  Heavens,  No!  Reverend,  what  are 
you  thinking  of?     {Incensed) 

Reverend.  {Incensed)  I,  thinking  of!  (Justin 
starts  to  re-enter  and  turns  away  laughing)  Oh, 
dear  me. 

Honora.  You  know  very  well  what  I  mean,  if 
you  will  let  yourself  look  at  it  fairly. 

Reverend.    /  let  myself ! 

HoNORA.  {Earnestly)  You  know  that  Self-sac- 
rifice is  the  essence  of  woman's  nature,  when  she's 
natural.    What  is  obedience  beside  that  ? 

Reverend.  My  dear  Honora,  you  picture  an 
ideal  state  of  things. 

Ho  NORA.    Yes ;  why  not  ? 

Reverend.    Ah, — But. 

Honora.  {Coaxingly)  Ah,  now,  don't  "  But  ". 
Once  in  a  while,  you  see,  somebody  wants  to  be 
ideal;  and  then  the  v/hole  v/orld  is  astonished. — / 
would  like  to  be  .  .  .  ideal. 

Reverend.  But  as  society  is  now  constituted,  it 
has  to  be  safe-guarded  against 

Honora.  Everything  it  doesn't  live  up  to! 
That's  why  it  cannot  grow.  But  religion,  Reverend 
dear,  hasn't  such  stupid  things  to  do.  It  has  to  up- 
hold nothing  but  the  truest,  the  deepest,  the  most 
beautiful ! — Oh,  Reverend, — and  you're  sitting  on 
my  Hat ! 

Reverend.    Er — Justin !    Er 

Honora.  Justin,  come  back,  do !  Come  and  help 
him  if  you  can.    Oh,  Justin.    He  is  saying  that  two 


THE  CHAMELEON.  15 

Heads  are  better  than  one!  {Re-enter  Justin,  c.) 
Eh,  Reverend? 

Reverend.  Honora,  where  did  you  learn  all  this, 
about  Love? 

Honora.    Where  indeed? 

Reverend.  There  is  someone  else — besides 
Walter. 

Honora.  (After  a  pause)  Well,  I  do  hope  sol 
(Skaking  her  head  with  a  sigh) 

Reverend.    You  care  for  someone  else. 

Honora.  Not  I !  And  I  did  so  want  to  love 
somebody.    And  I  don't. 

Reverend.  Then  you  never  really  cared  for  Wat. 

Honora.  (Honestly)  No.  Not  at  all.  But  I 
am  somehow  so  impersonal;  Walter  didn't  seem  to 
matter. 

Reverend.     (Groaning)     Lnpersonal! 

Honora.    Now  how  hard  you  are  to  please. 

Reverend.    Are  you  a  woman  at  all? 

Honora.  (Meekly)  I  don't  know.  I  think  so, 
at  least, — I  never  can  write  a  letter  without  adding 
one  or  two  postscripts,  if  that's  convincing.  But  I 
suppose  I  must  be  a  New  Woman.  You  may  have 
me  transfixed  with  a  hat-pin,  if  you  think  it's  best. 
Or — or  Justin  will  put  me  in  a  Book. 

Justin.    I  will. 

(Reverend  rises.) 

Honora.  Thank  you  for  coming  to  talk  it  over. 
(Gives  him  her  hand)  It's  no  earthly  good,  to  be 
honest,  but  I'll  think  over  all  the  wise  things  you've 
said. 

Reverend.  Oh,  /  have  said  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing;  if  you  recall  the  circumstance. 

Honora.  (Reproachfully)  Oh,  Reverend!  And 
when  I  have  (going  up  center)  trusted  you — with 
my  whole — Hat.     (Taking  it  from  his  nerveless 


i6  THE  CHAMELEON. 

fingers)  But  what  were  you  going  to  say  then? 
You  shall  have  the  last  word. 

Reverend.    Ah ! 

HoNORA.    What  then? 

Reverend.    You  freely  offer  me — the  last  word? 

HoNORA.    Solemn  earnest.    What  is  it? 

Reverend.  You  are  the  Newest  of  New  Women. 
{Benignly)  There,  there,  keep  it  yourself,  my 
child,  for  your  honesty. 

HoNORA.    What  ? 

Reverend.  {Up  stage)  The  last  word!  {Exit 
c.  hy  the  garden-door) 

(Justin's  pipe  is  conspicuously  lightless.  Honora 
arranges  her  hat  on  the  head  of  Hermes,  and 
turns  to  him.) 

Honora.  You  see  ?  All  this  talk  about  Love  and 
Marriage!  And  nobody  will  stand  still  and  find 
out,  in  the  first  place,  what  you  are  like,  to  love  you 
or  not.  Ah,  well,  of  course,  I  have  been  most  in- 
considerate. But  it  won't  hurt  Walter,  after  this 
week  or  two  of  duck-shooting.  Did  you  see  him  be- 
fore he  left? 

Justin.    Yes,  last  night. 

Honora.    And  did  he  look  blighted  ? 

Justin.  Candidly,  no.  After  all,  he  is  still  some- 
thing of  an  unlicked  cub.  You  have  your  eyes 
open;  he  has  not.  I  don't  understand  how  it  ever 
went  so  far, — for  you. 

Honora.  Neither  do  I.  I  don't  suppose  I  can 
make  it  clear  to  you.  I  sound  sillier  and  sillier. 
{Comes  down) 

Justin.  Please  remember  how  much  I  am  con- 
cerned with  Aspects  of  Truth.  As  much  concerned 
as  you.  Let  us  dig  up  some  now.  {Invitingly,  he 
pushes  out  a  chair.  She  sits  on  the  edge  of  it,  with 
sudden  seriousness.    Justin  takes  one  opposite  and 


THE  CHAMELEON.  17 

r.stens,  with  an  occasional  resort  to  his  smokeless 
pipe)  I  used  to  hear  of  you  when  he  was  still  in 
college. 

HoNORA.    Oh  yes,  long  ago. 

Justin.    And  when  he  went  abroad? 

HoNORA.  I  wrote  to  him.  (She  digs  patterns 
zvith  her  parasol  on  the  floor  earnestly) 

Justin.    And  when  he  came  back? 

HoNORA.  You  see,  it  was  horribly  dull  down 
here,  there  wasn't  a  human  creature  to  relieve  the 
landscape !  Not  satisfactorily  human.  And  it  used 
to  come  over  me,  how  impossible  it  must  be  to  know 
one's  self  ever,  unless  one  can  love  somebody,  some- 
day. And  then,  just  then,  Walter  came  back,  and 
I  was  so  glad  to  see  him !  I  would  have  loved  any- 
body,— anybody ;  without  stopping  to  look.  And  so 
it  was  with  Walter. 

Justin.    The  landscape  required  somebody. 

HoNORA.  And  I — tried — to  make — him — "do." 
—It's  the  Truth. 

Justin.    I  honor  you  for  telling  it. 

HoNORA.  I  thank  you — for  understanding;  if — 
if  you  do. 

Justin.    I  do. 

HoNORA.    You  see? 

Justin.  Yes.  You  are  the  first  woman  I  ever 
saw. 

HoNORA.  Ah,  I'm  so  glad  someone  understands. 
And  I've  said  it,  and  now  .  .  .  I'll  take  my  book, 
and  I'll  take  my  hat  .  .  .  {Disengaging  it  from  the 
head  of  Hermes) 

Justin.  {Rapt)  Yes,  do!  I  mean— er— put  it 
on.    I — only  wanted  to — er — see  it  on.     (r.  front) 

HoNORA.    What  ? 

Justin.    Your  Hat. 

HoNORA.     {Open-mouthed)    On  what? 

Justin.  On  you; — your  head,  you  know.  You 
seem  to  prefer  chairs  and  parasols  and  all  manner 


i8  THE  CHAMELEON. 

of  still-life.  Ah! — (Honora  puts  on  her  hat,  with- 
out trying  it,  and  looks  at  him  inquiringly)  We — 
we  were  wondering — before  you  came — what  those 
long  streamers  were  for,  down  behind 

HoNORA.    Those  are  strings,  to  tie  the  Hat  on. 

Justin.    Most  provident. 

HoNORA.  Otherwise,  you  see,  it  would  come  off, 
easily. 

Justin.  And  what  was  that  you  said  about  some 
Book? 

HoNORA.  Oh,  my  book!  It's  in  the  right-hand 
cupboard  there.  {Pointing  to  the  cabinet  up  r.  of 
fireplace) 

Justin.  You  are  writing  a  Book?  {Goes  up  to 
cupboard) 

Honora.  Yes,  I  was.  I  mean  I  am.  No,  let  me 
find  it.    Yours  is  a  real  book. 

Justin.  And  it's  in  the  left-hand  cupboard!  I 
locked  it  there  last  night.    But,  your  Book — ? 

HoNORA.  Oh,  it's  nothing  but  a  Novel.  {Goes 
down  L.) 

Justin.  Nothing  but! — The  name — the  name — 
what's  it  about? 

HoNORA.  It's  about — ^yes,  I'll  tell  you.  It's  about 
—Truth !  Aspects  of  Truth !  But  I  call  it,— The 
Chameleon!  {Gleefully)  You  know  why.  Be- 
cause you  think  you  have  it,  and  you  haven't.  Be- 
cause it  changes  color  all  day  long.  Because,  now 
it's  green  and  lovely;  and  then  it's  gray  and  ugly; 
and  then  it's  rainbow;  and  then  it's  piebald.  And 
it's  so  hard  to  catch  and  keep,  and  know  what  color 
it  is.  The  Chameleon, — the  Chameleon!  Truth, 
the  Chameleon. 

Justin.  And  you  were  writing, — here,  all  these 
days? 

HoNORA.  Yes, — and  I  suppose  it's  true  that  I 
was  writing  myself  into  a  state  of  mind,  and  out  of 
it  again.     But  I've  begun  to  grow  up!  and  I  can 


THE  CHAMELEON.  19 

only  cling  to  my  bean-stalk  and  see  where  it  takes 
me.  So — I'll  just  take  my  hat  and  my  Book,  and 
begone. 

Justin.    Wait.    Let  me  see  the  Book. 

HoNORA.  Oh,  no  one  has  seen  anything  of  it  but 
Mr.  Carrick. 

Justin.  Quentin  Carrick?  Hm.  But  he  knows 
something  of  style.    Do  you  like  Carrick  ? 

HoNORA.  He's  charming — on  paper.  (Goes  to- 
ward cupboard) 

Justin.  You  shall  leave  the  Book.  {Stopping 
her  way  to  the  cupboard)  And  you  shall  go  on 
writing  here. 

Honora.  Here?  After  all  this? — Ah,  I  believe 
you  are  a  philosopher,  a  real  one. 

Justin.  Why  not?  1  heard  you  say  just  now 
that  you  wanted  yourself  to  be  a  something  ideal. 
Now  I 

Honora.    Yes  ?    You  ? — 

Justin.  An  I  for  an  I ! — All  these  good  home 
people  believe  that  an  idealist  is  a  man  who  goes  to 
sea  in  a  bowl.    I'm  simply  trying 

Honora.    Yes 

Justin.    To  find  out 

Honora.    Yes 

Justin.    How  to  begin- 


IIoNORA.    Go  on — go  on ! 

Justin.    To  be  Real. 

Honora.  {Rapturously)  Ah  .  .  .  But  I  ought 
to  go.  Good-bye,  and  thank  you.  {Going,  she  turns 
back)  And  don't  forget,  when  you  are  writing 
about  Truth,  that  wretched  world-old  phrase,  **  too 
good  to  be  true ;  " — it's  a  perfect  worm.  We  shall 
find  out  some  day,  that  all  our  "  hateful  "  truths 
were  hateful  only  because  they  were  not  true 
enough.  Some  day  it  will  be  all  beautiful.  It's  so 
hard  to  find  the  beginning.  If  only — zve  could  ever 
begin  at  the  beginning!     {Going) 


20  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Justin.  Come  back!  (Honora  turns  to  look  at 
him)  You  were  going  without  your  hat; — I  mean 
your  Book. 

IIONORA.     Oh ! 

JusTfN.  No,  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  your  Book. 
(Facing  her  with  determination)  Here  is  a  chance 
for  something  to  begin  from  the  beginning. 

Honora.    What? 

Justin.    You  : — and  the  Truth. 

Honora.  You  don't  ask  me  to  marry  Walter? 
Now  ? 

Justin.    No.    I  ask  you  ... 

Honora.    What  then? 

Justin.  To  marry  me.  {She  hacks  away  and 
stands  looking  at  him  with  concern)  I  haven't  lost 
my  wits.  Don't  be  frightened  away.  You  asked 
me  to  listen  while  you  told  your  perplexities,  poor 
child.  I  listened,  and  underneath  your  words,  I 
heard  my  own  heart  talking.  Yes,  my  heart.  I 
knew  I  must  have  one.  {Smiling)  Your  discovery 
was  mine;  your  efforts  were  mine.  And  you,  poor 
Truth,  so  young  and  green  and  valorous!  You 
were  like  some  dream  of  mine  that  took  on  a  human 
likeness  and  faced  me  here.  And  I  never  could 
have  uttered  this  wild  thing  to  anyone  else.  It 
happens,  because  you  are  you,  and  I  am  I. 

Honora,     {Dazedly)     Because  I  am  I  .  .  . 

Justin.  Yes. — Did  you  not  say  just  now  that  we 
blame  Truth  for  coming  late?  But  we  ourselves 
never  begin  at  the  beginning?  And  that  people 
must  always  speak  of  things  "  too  good  to  be  true  ?  " 
You  seem  to  me  too  good  to  be  true.  But  I  know 
you  are  true.  And  I  dare  to  tell  you  now.  I'm 
going  to  begin  at  the  very  beginning.  {She  looks 
at  him  with  wide  eyes  and  grozving  fascination) 
Oh,  it  seems  crazy,  no  doubt.  But  one  thing  is  cer- 
tain. I  could  not  have  begun  much  sooner ;  could  I  ? 
{She   laughs   nervously)      Truth   is   the   one   ad- 


THE  CHAMELEON.  21 

venture:  You  know  that.  And  you  must  share  it 
with  me.  Truth,  from  the  beginning — From  the 
moment  that  I  saw  you,  I  knev/  that  you  were  She 
— Your  hunger,  child ;  for  you  were  hunghy.  {She 
nods)  Your  loneliness;  for  you  were  lonely, 
weren't  you?  (She  nods)  Do  you  know  that  your 
face  turned  towards  me,  three  times  while  you  were 
talking?  (She  shakes  her  head)  And  you  were 
right.  If  you  will  only  trust  me,  as  I  trust  you,  you 
shall  never  be  alone  in  the  world  again.  (Sounds 
from  the  house-dcor.  Honoi^a  starts  out  of  her 
spell) 

HoNORA.  Oh,  there  is  somebody!  (Takes  flight 
c.  to  the  garden) 

(Enter  l.,  Rufus,  hastily.) 

RuFus.  Hello,  has  Sylvester  gone? 

Justin.  Yes. 

Rufus.  And  what's  the  upshot  of  it  all?     (Sits 

on  table)  Will  she, — won't  she? 

Justin.  She  won't  marry  him. 

Rufus.  (Chuckling)  Poor  Wat!  To  think 
Honora  should  break  up  a  happy  household  like 
this ! 

(Enter  Rose  l.) 

Rose.  You  might  have  waited  to  tell  me  what 
they  said. 

Justin.    Ah,  you  must  ask  Sylvester. 

Rose.    But  will  she? 

Rufus.  No,  she  won't.  And  after  all  she's  much 
too  clever  for  Wat,  if  he  is  my  brother.  Cheer  up. 
You've  always  been  so  chummy  with  Honora. 
Everything  will  be  just  the  same. 

Rose.  (Coming  down  c,  tragically) — How  like 
a  man!    There  is  a.  grave  side  to  the  matter,  Rufus. 


22  THE  CHAMELEON. 

It's  one  thing  for  a  Writer — excuse  me,  Justin, — a 
Writer  of  Books  to  set  people  all  examining  their 
minds  in  this  modern  tmwholesome  way.  Because 
they  simply  cannot  write  any  kind  of  book  without 
analyzing  something, — 

RuFUS.     If  it's  only  a  Cook-book  I 

Rose.    They  Write.    But  it  is  we  who  Live 

RuFus.    And  Eat 

Rose.    And  to  us,  who  are  Living 

RuFUS.    Or  eating 

Rose.  It's  a  very  different  matter.  Honora  has 
not  only  broken  a  happy  and  suitable  engagement; 
but  she  has  walked  off  in  high  feather,  to  finish  her 
novel.  The  book's  the  thing !  It  always  was.  And 
it  matters  nothing  to  her  that  she  has  set  everyone 
else  self-searching  and  hair-splitting  about  the  mat- 
ter of  Truth, — Truth — in  all  things,  from  the  very 
beginning.  And  here  is  Justin  who  seems  to  sympa- 
thize with  her. 

Justin.    I  do! 

RuFus.    By  Jove ! 

Justin.  And  I  have  begged  her  to  go  on  writing 
here  every  morning,  all  summer — er — in  the  corner 
somewhere.    It's  so  cool  and  quiet. 

Rose.    But  you !    Your  Book. 

Justin.  I  won't  let  her  disturb  me. — My  book's 
done, — or  very  nearly.  Come.  I've  heard  you  talk- 
ing Honora  for  years.    Do  stand  by  her,  now. 

Rose.    Well,  you  are  brotherly ! 

Justin.    Heaven  forbid! 

Rose.  Oh,  then  you  wouldn't  like  her  for  a  sister 
of  your  own,  on  second  thought, 

Justin.  (Judicially)  No.  Perhaps  not :  on  sec- 
ond thought.  But  I'm  immensely  interested  in  her 
Book. 

Rose.  Well,  of  all  the  cold-blooded  things  I  have 
ever  seen,  there  is  nothing  to  equal  a  man  of  letters ! 
Honora   is  positively   charming;   if  you   took   the 


THE  CHAMELEON.  23 

trouble  to  look  at  her.  I  give  you  up.  Rufus,  come. 
We  are  interrupting  him;  and  I  know  you'll  both 
talk  if  I  go  away;  and  I  want  to  hear. 

{Exeunt  Rose  and  Rufus  l.  to  the  house.  Justin 
watches  them  out,  smiling;  then  turns  expect- 
antly c.  HoNORA  appears  up  c.  and  re-enters. 
She  has  a  shy  and  younger  air, ) 

Justin.  Ah! — Again,  you've  come  true.  You 
left — your  Book? 

HoNORA.  Yes,  but  I  did  not  come  for  that.  I 
came,  because — I  wanted — to  hear  more.  {Coming 
down  a  step  or  two) 

Justin.    You  waw/^J  to  hear  more ! 

HoNORA.    Yes. 

Justin.  {Rapturously)  Ah,  don't  you  see  ?  We 
two  have  more  to  give  each  other  than  any  man  and 
woman  on  the  planet? — li  you  are  not  afraid  to  be 
**  fantastic  ". 

Honora.    Ah!     {Drawing  nearer) 

Justin.  And  we  have  only  to  make  one  solemn 
compact — To  tell  each  other  the  absolute  truth — in 
all  things ;  at  all  times ;  on  demand. 

Honora.    But  others  coidd  do  that. 

Justin.  Indeed  they  could !  But  they  seem  not 
to  know  it.  They  never  learn.  They  are  bound  to 
live  on  saw-dust,  and  die  of  boredom ! — When  they 
might  explore  the  stars.    {Radiantly) 

Honora.  But — but  of  course — I  don't  love  you, 
Justin. 

Justin.  How  can  you  be  sure  you  don't  ?  You've 
only  seen  me  some  twenty-five  minutes.  Now  the 
moment  I  saw  you,  {Solemnly)  I  knew  that  you 
were  She.  I  knew.  So,  even  if  you  did  not  know 
that  I  was  He 

Honora.    What  then? 


24  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Justin.  I  must  be  He,  you  know.  There  isn't 
anybody  else  for  me  to  be.  (He  takes  her  hands 
firmly  and  looks  at  her)     Honora,  I  am  He. 

HoNORA.    I — I  must  go. 

Justin.  {Letting  her  hands  go,  and  standing 
away  a  little)  You  are  coming  back ;  every  morn- 
ing, all  the  summer,  till  your  Book's  done,  and  my 
Book's  done,  and  we  are  both  wise  enough  to  say 
a  thing  or  two  to  this  generation !  Yes,  wise  enough 
to  look  the  old  world  through  the  eyes  and  say 
"Good-Morning"! —    Will  you? 

HoNORA.    Y — n-n-n — Yes ! 

Justin.    And  you  accept  what  I  tell  you? 

HoNORA.     N — nn — Yes ! 

Justin.  You  are  She;  and  I  am  He.  And  you 
shall  walk  up  and  down  and  round  and  round  my 
heart  until  you  know  us  both,  completely.  It's  a 
pledge.  I  am  yours,  Honora,  whether  you  are 
mine,  or  not.    But  you  are  coming  true.  .   . . 

Honora.    What  would  they 

Justin.  No  one  will  know.  They  couldn't  un- 
derstand yet.  What  do  they  know  of  Life?  Who 
never  dream  ?    You're  coming  true,  Honora  ? 

Honora.  {Firmly)  Yes.  Good-bye.  {Goes; 
turns  and  comes  hack)    Justin 

Justin.    Honora ! 

Honora.  I  just  remembered.  I — it  wasn't  .  .  . 
it  wasn't  quite  true  about 

Justin.    Oh,  you  eighth  Wonder !    About  what? 

Honora.  Those  hat-strings.  The  Hat  wouldn't 
really  come  off  at  all,  you  know,  without ; — save  in 
a  high  wind.  They  are  often  in  the  way.  But  I 
wear  them;  because  I  think  they — I  thought  they 
were — more  becoming.  {Starting  hack  a  little) 
Are  they  ? 

Justin.     {Earnestly)     Yes. 

Honora.  {Starting  hack  a  little)  Good-bye! 
{Going,  she  returns  slowly)     Oh,  one  thing  more. 


THE  CHAMELEON.  25 

Justin — I — it  was  not  entirely  true,  this  last  thing  I 
said,  about  the  Plat-strings.  I  mean,  I  didn't  really 
come  back  to  tell  you  that.  I  really  came — to  tell 
3'ou  .  .  . 

Justin.  Tell  me! — 

HoNORA.  {Backing  away  from  him  by  degrees, 
with  a  shining  face)  All  that  you  say — is  wonder'- 
f ul  to  me.  ...  It  makes  me — almost — Love  you  I 

(She  runs  away  through  the  garden.) 
CURTAIN. 


ACT  II. 


Scene: — The  same;  three  months  later.  Autumn 
afternoon.  There  is  now  a  tall  cuckoo-clock 
on  the  house  stairway.  The  garden  door  is 
closed.  There  are  autumn  flowers  about. 
Honora's  hat  adorns  the  head  of  Hermes 
L.  c.  L.  down,  at  a  paper-strewn  table, 
HoNORA.  R.  down,  at  another  table,  Justin. 
Between  them,  down  c.  the  Japanese  screen 
half-folded  back.  They  are  both  abstracted; 
HoNORA  playing  with  her  pen  nervously; 
Justin  gazing  at  her  like  a  visionary.  Honora 
seizes  her  pen,  poises  it  ominously,  and  writes 
something  with  an  air  of  finality  and  deter- 
mination;  then  puts  down  her  pen.) 

Justin.     At  last! — The  End.     And  now — (He 
rises  jubilantly.    Knock  at  the  house-door) 

(Rose  appears  there.) 

Rose.     I   know   I'm   interrupting.     But  youVe 
written  as  long  as  it's  good  for  you  to. 


26  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Justin.    My  dear,  we're  horribly  busy. 

Rose.    I  must  talk  to  somebody. 

Justin.  Wait  a  bit,  do.  I  was  entirely  wrapped 
up — (Exit  Rose  impatiently)  star-gazing; — at 
Honora. 

HoNORA.    You  moved  it. 

Justin.    What  ? 

HoNORA.     The  screen. 

Justin.    Place  was  growing  as  bleak  as  a  bam. 

HoNORA.     This  warm  day! 

Justin.  I  couldn't  see  you.  Does  it  bother 
you,  really?  (He  crosses;  and  folds  the  screen 
round  her  chair  completely)  There  you  are,  Truth, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  well. 

HoNORA.     (Hidden)    He — 

Justin.  Out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind !  Do  you 
see  any  stars  down  there? 

HoNORA.      Oh ! 

Justin.  Nobody  knows  you  and  nobody  cares. 
You're  the  unwelcome  Truth:  do  you  hear?  And 
whenever  you  show  your  disagreeable  face,  you 
crack  an  illusion! 

HoNORA.     Justin, — Justin  Aurelius,  help! 

Justin.  What  will  you  give  me.  Truth,  if  I  let 
you  out? 

HoNORA.     Ah ! 

Justin.  The  time  is  up — Have  I  kept  all  my 
promises?    Have  I  been  good? 

HoNORA.    Yes. 

Justin.     Have  I  loved  you  far  off — enough? 

HoNORA.    Yes. 

Justin.  Then  stand  forth — Dearest.  Show 
yourself — to  the  world  and  me!  (He  lifts  away 
the  screen  suddenly  and  surprises  her  with  her 
hands  over  her  eyes)     Honora ! — Tears  ? 

HoNORA.  (Laughing  nervously)  Oh,  nothing, 
nothing!  I —  You  see — it  was  so  dark  down  in 
the  well !    (He  holds  out  his  arms)    Oh,  not  yet ! 


THE  CHAMELEON.  27 

(Knock  on  the  garden  door.    Enter  c,  Rufus,  pipe 
in  hand.) 

Rufus.  I  say,  I  want  to —  What's  the  matter 
with  the  screen? 

Justin.  My  dear  fellow,  we're  awfully  hard  at 
work.  And  1  find  my  presence  disturbs  Honora. 
She's  absorbed  in  her  last  chapter. 

Rufus.  By  Jove,  Honora,  is  it  a  bad  ending? 
Don't!  I'm  a  perfect  child  about  bad  endings. — 
I'll  go. —    Thought  your  working  hours  were  over. 

Justin.  Not  to-day,  though.  See  you  soon:  if 
you  don't  mind.  {Returns  to  his  table  with  a 
desperate  air  of  business,  taking  the  screen  after 
him  and  setting  it  up  before  his  own  table.  Exit 
Rufus) 

(Honora  rises  and  crosses  r.,  knocks  on  the  screen 
as  if  it  were  a  door.) 

Honora.      (Meekly)     Justin. 

Justin.    Is  it  Truth  ? 

Honora.    No.    Nothing  but  Honora. 

Justin.  Nothing  But! — (Pushes  aside  the  screen 
and  gently  takes  her  hands.  He  kisses  them:  and 
looks  at  her  gladly)  Nothing  But! —  Tell  me. 
It's  really  done  ? 

Honora.  Yes  .  .  .  But  yours?  (He  points  to 
the  left-hand  cupboard  happily)  How  beautiful  it 
is! 

Justin.    Where  you  touched  it. 

Honora.     I  have  done  nothing  but  delay  it. 

Justin.  You  did  that.  For  I  had  to  write  it  all 
over  again;  all  over  again  in  the  light  of  you. — 
Ah — (Cuckoo-clock  chirrups  four)  Oh,  be  quiet. 
(To  Honora)  Do  you  really  find  it  beautiful, 
you? 

Honora.  The  whole  world  will  find  it  beautiful. 
And  so  brave. 


28  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Justin.    Brave  ? 

HoNORA.  Yes.  Because  it  is  simple:  or  sounds 
so.  You've  been  great  enough  to  say  wise  things 
simply.    It  is  all  as  limpid 

Justin.  But  that's  all  you!  If  anything  had 
shaken  my  faith  in  you,  there  v/ould  have  been  no 
more  Book. 

KoNORA.  Do  you  mean  that?  {He  smiles  at 
her)  Yes,  yes.  Of  course  I  know  you  mean  it. 
But  it's  too  much. 

Justin.  Then  let  us  talk  of  your  Book.  For  I 
know  it,  all  but  the  ending.  And  how  beautiful  it 
is !  What  a  marvellous  Chameleon, — a  rainbow 
beast!  Ah,  you'll  know  some  day  how  proud  I  am 
of  you.  And  Carrick  says  .  .  .  Do  you  know  why 
I'm  never  jealous  of  Carrick?  He  isn't  a  man; 
He's  a  Book.  But  now! —  Summer's  over;  the 
books  are  done. —  Life  begins.  .  .  .  Was  I  selfish 
to  ask  it,  when  I've  had  you  to  look  at,  all  these 
mornings?  And  when  I've  heard  you  say  .  .  .  . 
that  you  love  me — that  you  do,  you  do  love  me  ? 

Honora.    To  ask ? 

Justin.    At  the  end  of  the  summer 

Honora.     You  mean? 

Justin.     My  kiss  .  .  . 

Honora.  (Shrinking  a  little)  I — I — all  the 
time — (A  knock)     I  was- 


JusTiN.     Yes — (A  knock)     You  were ? 

Honora.     (Hurriedly)     I  was — saving  it! 

(Enter  c,  Walter,  with  a  shot-gun  and  a  cloth 
wherewith  to  polish  it.    Justin  impatient.) 

Walter.  I  say,  you  two  have  worked  long 
enough.    It's  after  four. 

Justin.    It's  the  last  day. 

Walter.  Well,  and  it  takes  the  last  trump  to 
make  any  impression  upon  your  hearing.    'Ought  to 


THE  CHAMELEON.  29 

beg  pardon,  may-be.  But  you  see  Rose  is  out  there, 
in  tears. 

Justin.    Rose? 

HoNORA.     What  now? 

Waltlr.  'M-hm —  Crying  on  the  verandah — 
Says  you  have  finished  your  books  and  her  happi- 
ness together;  v/ith  a  single  Finis,  as  it  were. 
There's  an  indictment  for  you.  That's  what  comes 
of  being  Literary! —  Came  hi  for  a  home-thrust 
myself.  She  told  me  that  if  you,  Nora,  had  not  dis- 
covered that  you  Vv^ere  far  too  clever  for  me,  you 
never  would  have 

Justin.    Oh,  come,  come! 

HoNORA.    Wat,  how  shabby  of  you ! 

Walti:r.  M-hm.  She  did.  And  I  told  her, 
Nora,  that  you  v/erc  quite  right;  and  that  I  had 
come  to— sight — it  (Looking  along  his  gun-bcrrel 
carefully)  precisely  as  you  do.  But  it  did  not  cheer 
her.  This  dissatisfaction  of  hers  with  Rufus  seems 
to  have  blamed  little  to  do  with  Rufus !—  It's  very 
modern.  So  you'd  better  let  her  in,  and  find  out 
what  you've  been  up  to.  {Exit  Justin)  You 
probably  don't  know. —  Literary  People  are  so 
absent-minded.  You  are  like  Rousseau  stirring  up 
the  French  Revolution;  you  are  like  the  shilling 
shockers  that  lure  small  boys  to  run  away,  and  play 
Pirate.  Rose — is  playing  pirate.  {Still  he  pol- 
ishes) Now  murder  is  all  very  well  in  its  way,  and 
even  necessary  ...  at  times.  But  v/hen  it  comes 
to  the  choice  of  guests  she  has  made  for  to-morrow 
night!    I  wish  she  wouldn't  be  so  unscrupulous. 

HoNORA.    Oh,  that  dinner? 

Walter.  Of  course,  /  am  good-looking:  and 
"you  have  your  Mind,"  as  Rose  says.  And  we'll 
be  there. —  But  then  there's  the  Reverend,  and 
Aunt  Eunice. 

Honora.     Really  ? 

Walter.     And  Kilmaync,  that  old  sport! 


30  THE  CHAMELEON.  ' 

HoNORA.    She  hadn't  seen  him  for  years. 

Walter.     Why  ask  him? 

HoNORA.     Auld  acquaintance? 

Walter.  — There  is,  now  and  then,  an  "  auld 
acquaintance "  that  should  be  forgot,  distinctly. 
Then,  Mrs.  Van  Wyck !  Oh,  wait  till  you  see  Mrs. 
Van  Wyck. — I  tell  you,  it's  going  to  be  a  feast  of 
Nero,  with  all  of  us  living  torches. —  And  Thomas 
is  coming,  Nora,  James  Roberts  Thomas. 

Honora.    Oh,  Wat !    Don't  tell  me  that. 

Walter.  I  thought  you  liked  him.  You  ought 
to.     He's  Literary. 

HoNORA.     Ugh ! 

Walter.     He  is,  though. 

HoNORA.  {Simulating  the  gushing  hostess) 
"So-and-so"  you'll  be  so  drawn  to  Who's  this! — 
You  both  carry  umbrellas,  I  know,  in  bad  weather ! 

Walter.  Come  now,  he  has  been  chasing  you 
about,  to  read  that  thesis  of  his,  as  it  were  one 
bitten  by  a  gad-fly. 

HoNORA.  Oh,  that  thesis !  {She  begins  to  clear 
up  her  papers) 

Walter.  Must  be  deep,  you  know.  He  read  me 
a  page  of  it,  and  I  couldn't  make  head  or  tail  of  the 
thing;  so  I  referred  him  to  you. 

HoNORA.  Ah,  Wat ! — I  have  put  off  hearing  that 
thesis  for  eight  v/eeks,  upon  a  hundred  excuses. 

Walter.    Ah,  Truth  [ 

HoNORA.  All  based  upon  three  excellent  reasons : 
I  don't  want  to :  I  don't  w^ant  to :  I  don't  w-ant  to ! 

(Walter  picks  up   a   card  from   the   table  and 
reads. ) 

Walter.    Carrick.    Hm — hm 


HoNORA.     But  surely  he  can't  read  his  thesis  to 
me  to-morrow  night?    At  dinner? 


THE  CHAMELEON.    .  31 

Walter.  Oh,  can't  he  ?  You  don't  know  him. — 
Never  mind,  Nora.  At  least,  he  shan't  take  you 
out.  You  shall  have  Carrick.  And  he's  Literary. 
Why  you  like  him  I  don't  know.  But  he's  plainly 
interested  in  you,  as  far  as  a  man  of  letters  can  be 
— now-a-days.  Once  upon  a  time  literary  people 
fell  in  love;  or  said  they  did:  and  wrote  about  it 
What  comes  over  the  young  man's  fancy,  I  v/on- 
der  ?  Look  at  Justin,  now.  He  writing  in  one  win- 
dow ;  and  you  in  the  other  all  summer !  And  by  the 
year  after  next  it  will  dawn  upon  him  that  he  might 
have  been  making  love  to  you,  a  few  days  at  least — 
Spite  of  that,  though,  I'm  not  half  ashamed  of  him. 
In  a  crowd  of  lions,  you'd  take  him  for  a  man — I 
even  like  the  stuff  he  writes —  And  I'm  nothing  if 
not  severe. 

HoNORA.  I  know.  {Crosses  r.,  with  her  MSS. 
and  locks  them  in  the  right-hand  cabinet,  linger- 
ing ly) 

Walter.  Won't  it  be  funny  to  try  for  a  plain 
unbiased  opinion  of  yours  when  it's  out?  I  sup- 
pose it  will  knock  everything  flat. —  You  have  such 
a  way  of  saying  Nothing  so  fetchingly.  I'm  told 
that  indicates  Style.  And  it  is  seldom  seen  in  Eng- 
lish. 

HoNORA.     Who  told  you  that? 

Walter.  Your  loving  Publisher.  Met  him  in 
town  yesterday.  Wish  I'd  asked  him  to  join  the 
procession  of  animals  to-morrow  night.  He  told 
me — that  if  the  ending  is  up  to  the  rest  of  it,  it  will 
be — (steady,  now!)  The  Book  of  the  Season. 
Yes, — The  Chameleon:  Book  of  the  Season  ! —  He 
was  struck  with  your  graphic  insight  into  the  Mod- 
ern Man. — I  say,  Nora,  did  you  dig  all  that  out  of 
Carrick,  or  me?  Or  do  I  furnish  just  the  super- 
ficial element  that's  going  to  make  it  sell?  Poor 
Wat!  By  the  way,  Nora,  you'll  find  my  perfect 
portrait  in  the  works  of  William  Shakespere — if 


32  THE  CHAMELEON. 

you  Literary  people  ever  read  him.  Yes,  you  will 
though;  here  it  is.  (Going  to  book-case  and  pull- 
ing out  a  volume.  He  declaims  cheerfully,  till  he 
finds  the  place)  "  By  this,  poor  Wat,  far  off,  upon 
a  hill  "...  Here  we  are !  "  Stands  on  his  hinder 
legs,  with  listening  ear !  "  What  a  picture.  Poor 
Wat! — (The  house  door  opens)  Here's  Rose. 
And  she  is  going  to  tell  you  "  precisely  "  what  she 
means ;  if  you  think  you  can  "  catch  the  idea !  " 
(Exit  c,  hastily) 

(Re-enter  l.,  Justin,  with  Rose  who  is  filled  with 
tragic  importance.) 

HoNORA.  Rose,  dear,  is  it  anything  new?  Wat 
tells  me  there  is  something  wrong  with  you. 

Rose.  I  tried  to  tell  you  before  now.  But  you 
were  writing  away,  both  of  you,  oblivious  of  all  real 
life ; — writing,  like  Bats ! 

Justin.  You  may  call  me  a  Bat  or  anything  else 
you  choose,  sis.  But  what's  it  all  about?  Surely 
you  and  Rufus 

Rose.  In  a  word :  we  have  decided  upon  a  legal 
separation. 

Justin.    Eh  ? 

HoNORA.    No,  no! 

Rose.    Yes.    We  have  agreed. —  That  is,  I  have. 

HoNORA.  Oh,  Rose,  Rose!  How  mistaken. 
How  preposterous. 

Rose.  You  call  me  mistaken ! — and  if  it  had  not 
been  for  you — and  Justin  too! — digging  after  the 
foundations  of  Truth  in  everything,  we  might  have 
lived  on  in  perfect  comfort: 

HoNORA.    Rose ! 

Rose.    Utterly  unsuited  as  we  are. 

HoNORA.    Rose ! 

Rose.  Can  you  suppose  that  you  two  are  monop- 
olists of  the  search  for  the  Ideal  ? 


THE  CHAMELEON.  33 

Justin.    Rose ! 

Rose.  That  you  are  a  Truth  Trust?  .  .  .  You 
write.  But  it  is  we  who  Live !  For  you  it  may  be 
all  most  painless  and  lovely  theorizing,  with  your 
One  adventure  of  Truth  in  all  things  great  and 
small.  But  it  remained  for  us  to  practise  what  you 
talk  about,  for  us  to  live  it.  And  so  I  found 
out 

Justin.    Well  ? 


Rose.     {Weeping)     That  Rufus 

Justin.    Yes,  yes? 

Rose.    Was  really  in  love  with  someone  else — — 

Justin.     1 

l-    He  is? 

HONORA.     J 

Rose.  Not  notv,  of  course!  {Indignantly) 
Was  when  he  married  me. 

HoNORA.   1 

\    He  told  you  that? 

Justin.     J 

Rose.  He  thought  I  would  like  it!  It  was  the 
Truth. —  The  hideous  truth.  It  means  that  I  was 
a  second  thought:  that — in  that  vulgar  phrase — I 
was  caught  on  the  rebound !    /  was — /  v/as ! 

Justin.  He  up  and  told  you  that  out  of  a  clear 
sky?    He's  a  brute. 

Rose.  He  is  not  a  brute.  He  was  blindly  fol- 
lowing your  lead : — and  mine. 

Justin.    Yours  ? 

Rose.  Of  course  he  knew  I  was  not — wildly  in 
love  with  him,  when  I  married  him.  But  I  was  very 
young.  It  took  me  longer  to  grow  up  than  it  takes 
most  girls.  Of  course  I  was  fond  of  him.  But 
I  was  full  of  idealism — (Justin  and  Honora  look 
at  each  other  incredulously)  the  hero-worship  of 
a  very  young  girl.  If  you  understand  what  I 
mean. —    And  Rufus  has  no  idealism  in  his  nature. 


34  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Justin.  Mm. —  Did  you  worship  some  hero 
when  you  married  Ruf us  ? 

Rose.  There  was  someone  I — I  knew — very 
slightly. 

Justin.    Ah ! 

Rose.  But  he  affected  my  imagination  in  a  way 
that  you  two  can  hardly  understand.  If  you  ever 
fall  in  love, — you  will  learn  how  much  it  has  to  do 
with  unreachable  ideals.  I  used  to  see  him  ride  by 
the  house ;  and  once  I  danced  with  him,  somewhere. 

Justin.    Ah.    And  he  said ? 

Rose.  Oh,  almost  nothing.  The  merest  noth- 
ings. But  you'll  find  out,  when  once  you  begin  to 
Live,  how  little  there  is  in  Words. 

Justin.  By  Jove!  Then  it  was  rebound  with 
Rufus,  too. 

Rose.  That  is  a  very  different  matter  with  a 
young  girl,  too  young  to  understand  herself. — 
And  I  never  saw  him  again: — after  that  dance. 

Honora.    He — he  died? 

Rose.    No. 

Honora.    What  did  he  do? 

Rose.  How  do  I  know?  Aren't  you  two  always 
saying  that  it  isn't  what  one  does;  it's  what  one 
Isf —    But  when  it  comes  to  practise 

Justin.  Ah !  And  you  are  ready  to  give  up  all 
that's  in  your  hands  for  this  dream  out  of  ancient 
history  ? 

Rose.  Aren't  you  both  always  saying  that  one 
must  begin  with  the  very  beginning? 

Honora.    Ah ! 

Rose.  {Darkly)  Yes.  And  in  Real  Life,  Justin, 
we  go  further.  {Impressively)  I  will  go  further. 
If  the  Beginning  is  not  apparent,  I  am  ready  to  Dig 
it  Up! 

Justin.  But  surely  Rufus  doesn't  care  a  jack- 
straw  about  the  other  woman  now. 

Rose.    He  shall  have  opportunity  to  decide. 


THE  CHAMELEON.  35 

HONORA.      How  ? 

Justin.    For  the  love  of  heaven ! 

Rose.    You  will  see  her  to-morrow  night. 

Justin.     Not  Aunt  Eunice! 

HoNORA.     Mrs.  Van  Wyck  ! 

Rose.  Mrs.  Van  Wyck.  We  have  talked  it  all 
over; — quite  as  dispassionately  as  if  we  were  Lit- 
erary. And  I  hope  that  you  may  both  learn — 
painlessly — something  from  our  experience. — 
Mrs.  Van  Wyck  is  a  widow. 

HoNORA.     And — your  hero? 

Rose.  It  seems — Rufus  heard — he's  visiting  the 
Reverend.  We've  asked  them  both.  {Moved  to 
tears) 

Justin.  Who  is  he?  Who  the  devil?  Not  Car- 
rick!     He  never  says  nothing. 

Rose.  Rufus  told  me  so  much  about  that 
woman's  charming  laugh !  I  rely  on  you  to — keep 
her  laughing  all  through  dinner-time.  And  I  hear, 
she  sings ! 

Justin.  What  about  Him  ?  Be  fair.  What  can 
he  do  that's  irresistible?  Ride — ride! — Shall  we 
make  him  ride?    And  if  so,  v/here? 

Rose.  How  like  a  man. — But  Rufus,  at  least,  did 
catch  my  idea.  We  are  not  going  to  hold  each 
other  to  a  bond  that  does  not  satisfy  the  highest  de- 
mands of  our  natures. —  We  are  going  to  be  truth- 
ful, from  the  beginning:  and  as  generous  as  we  can. 
There  shall  be  no  reproaches.  (With  lofty  pity) 
In  Real  Life,  Justin, — people  Do  things. —  If  that 
woman  with  the  laugh  still  charms  him,  he  shall 
marry  her,  (sobbing)  if  she  were  a  laughing  hy — 
hy — hyena ! 

Justin.     But  v.'ho's  the  man? 

Honora.  Major  Kilmayne! — Oh,  Rose,  Rose! — 
And  here  comes  Mr.  Carrick  through  the  garden. — 

(Rose  starts  up  and  dries  her  eyes.) 


36  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Rose.  That  man  again! —  Do  be  composed,  all 
of  you.  I'll  come  back  when  I'm  fit  to  behold 
{Starting  away,  she  turns,  at  the  foot  of  the  house- 
steps  and  says  zuith  a  fluttered  air)  I — I — you  may 
think  me  very  self-conscious;  but  it  does  seem  to 
me  that  he  comes  here  almost  too  often.     {Exit  l.) 

Justin.  {Hurriedly)  I  won't  have  her  black- 
guarding you  like  this,  as  a  destroyer  of  public 
peace.  Let  her  take  m.e  for  a  frozen  ink-well ! — 
Come,  tell  her,  dearest, — tell  her  you  are  going  to 
be  mine. —  Give  her  another  idea: — suggestion, 
suggestion, — hypnosis ! —  She'll  come  back  with  an 
olive-branch  in  her  beak. 

HoNORA.  Oh,  Justin,  not  yet !  Don't  tell  her ! — 
Some  day  I  will — if  I  must.    Not  yet. 

Justin.  Soon,  then.  Ah,  can't  we  be  married 
soon?  (Carrick  appears  c,  outside)  Oh,  con- 
found him ! 

Honor  A.  Go  and  soothe  her  feelings  if  you  can. 
But  don't  tell— yet. 

{Exit  Justin  l.,  into  the  house.  Carrick  knocks 
at  the  door  c.  Honora  goes  and  opens  it 
slowly,  disappearing  behind  it,  at  the  same 
time,  while  she  holds  the  knob.) 

Carrick.     {Inquiringly)     Good-afternoon. 

{He  is  a  faultlessly  dressed  man,  between  forty 
and  fifty;  a  literary  man  of  the  zvorld,  with  a 
carefully  impassive,  pale  face,  that  lights  up 
once  in  a  while  with  curious  interest.  He 
stands  on  the  threshold  and  waits  for  Honora 
to  re-appear.) 

Honora.  {Emerging,  slowly)  Good-afternoon 
to  you. 


THE  CHAMELEON.  37 

Carrick.  {Blandly)  Why  do  you  hide?  You 
look  rather  Hke  the  dweller  in  a  glass-house,  wait- 
ing to  throw  stones. 

HoNORA.     (Hastily)     Oh ! 

Carrick.     Dare  I  come  in? 

HoNORA.  (Recovering  herself)  Come  in,  come 
in!    Work  is  over;  and  well  over. 

Carrick.  The  Book  is  done?— I  cangratulatc 
you. —    And  Hopefar's  Book,  of  course. 

Konora.    Oh  yes,  that's  done,  too. 

Carrick.     Do  v/e  congratulate  Hopefar? 

Honora.  We  do.  It  is  indeed  a  Book!  But  You 
don't  know  it,  yet. 

Carrick.    No.    You  do. 

HoNORA.  Oh,  yes.  He  says  ...  in  fact  .  .  . 
I — I  shall  be  proud  to  have  had  a  hand  in  that  book. 

Carrick.  (Looking  about)  I  haven't  seen  you 
here  for  some  time,  without  that  good  Argus  pre- 
tending to  ply  his  quill. 

HoNORA.    Pretending  ? 

Carrick.  My  child !  .  .  .  Candidly,  when  is  this 
game  of  truth  to  end?  It  ought  to  reach  a  climax 
now:  since  the  Books  are  done.  Unless  Hopefar 
persuades  you  to  rcv/rite  the  last  chapter.  (Watch- 
ing her) 

Honora.    Oh,  he  did ! 

Carrick.    The  devil  he  did ! 

Hcnora.  (Glibly)  I've  been  re-v/riting  it  these 
five  days.    Nov/,  it's  done. 

Carrick.  (Lighting  a  cigarette)  ]\Iay  I? 
Thanks.  As  one  of  the  sponsors  of  your  work, 
allow  me  to  remai'k,  you  arc  a  woman  of  the  most 
extraordinary  temperament. 

Honcua.  Ah  !  "  Temperament !  " —  Br-r. 
(Shrugging  her  shoulders) 

Carrick.  I'm  awfully  grateful  to  you.  You  set 
nie  guessing —  Hov/  you're  going  to  dispose  of 
Hopefar. 


38  THE  CHAMELEON. 

HoNORA.  (Nervously)  Why  should  I  have  to 
dispose  of  him? —  Dear  me!  Haven't  you  heard 
Rose's  complaints  that  I'm  wasted  on  the  library 
air  ? —    Eh  ?    They  who  Live ;  and  we  that  Write ! 

Carrick.  Yes  .  .  .  You  see,  I  write,  myself.  I 
know  something  about  the  point  of  view. 

HoNORA.     (Rallying)     Not  Justin's! 

Carrick.  Hm! — (Looks  at  the  table,  down  r. 
and  sits  there,  looking  at  her)  Let's  try  Justin's 
point  of  view.  Really, — not  half  bad.  (She  makes 
an  impatient  gesture)  Don't  apologize.  The  first 
time  I  ever  saw  you,  I  had  a  singular  curiosity  to 
see  you — angry.  Yes,  really,  I  believe  you're  al- 
most capable  of  a  rage.  And  it's  a  vei*y  rare  gift, 
you  know, — in  these  good  old  Peace-Conference 
times.  I'm  sure  you  could  hate  somebody  if  you 
tried.  It's  a  lost  art.  Loving  is  a  much  more 
obvious  virtue.  Though  one  could  never  expect 
you  to  love,  like  an  ordinary  woman.  You  have  too 
much  temperament.     Er — I  beg  you — don't  lose  it. 

Ho  NORA.  How  should  I  lose  it?  (She  stands 
facing  him) 

Carrick.  Ah,  well! —  You  see;  if  it  were  not 
an  easy  word  to  abuse,  I  should  almost  say  you 
have  a  complicating  streak  of  genius.  But  from 
Justin's  point  of  view — and  it's  a  very  comfortable 
one — you  look — er — almost  appealingly  Feminine. 
Just  that ;  nothing  more. 

Honora.  Well?  (She  has  started  half-angrily 
from  her  former  attitude) 

Carrick.  What  Justin  is  like,  from  your  point 
of  view, — he  doesn't  know. 

Honora.     (Calmly)     Do  you? 

Carrick.  Brava!  (Laughing)  No  matter. 
It's  in  your  book  that  we  shall^ll  find  Justin.  (He 
crosses  and  hands  her  the  cigarettes)  Do.  (She 
hesitates  and  makes  a  negative  gesture;  then  takes 
one  and  lights  it,  trying  to  he  tranquil)     He'll  be 


THE  CHAMELEON.  39 

there.  And  I'm  rather  sorry  fr  Justin.  He's  a 
good  fellow,  mind  you, — even  if  his  ethical  turn  of 
mind  is  a  bit — er — ridiculous.  He  might  go  into 
the  book,  you  know, — unexpurgated. 

HoNORA.  How  do  you  know  Justin  is  in  the 
book? 

Carrick.     My  dear  young  lady ! 

HoNORA.    Not  an  explicit  reply. 

Carrick.  Pardon  me,  it  is.  For  you  are  very 
young;  and  you  understand  so  little  of  men, — 
Shall  we  play  your  game  of  Truth  ? 

HoNORA.    Yes;  if  it's  new  to  you. 

Carrick.  Ah! —  The  Ch<imeleon  is  turning 
dark. —  You're  almost  angry.  Don't  apologize. 
It's  something  I  wanted  to  see,  you  know. 
(HoNORA  startled,  coughs  over  her  cigarette,  throws 
it  away  pettishly;  pulls  a  rose  out  of  the  flower 
howl  on  the  table,  and  eats  it  absent-mindedly,  petal 
by  petal)  Well,  then.  A  statement  and  a  piece  of 
counsel  all  from  your  admiring  servant. —  The 
Book  is  full  of  Justin.  For  you  were  young  and 
wise  enough  to  know  you  knew  nothing  of  men; 
you  were  charmingly  foolish  enough  to  suppose  it 
had  to  be  true:  You  wanted  to  dig  it  all  out  of 
some  man's — er,  heart.  And  Justin  is  the  man  to 
let  you  do  it. 

HoNORA.     Go  on.    It's  very  interesting. 

Carrick.  Indeed,  my — er,  my  dear  young  thing, 
it  is  uncommon  interesting.  I've  regarded  it,  going 
on  under  my  nose, — to  be  figurative — and  I've 
marvelled  at   the   greenness   of   our   sage,   Justin. 

HoNORA.  Sage-green,  maybe?  Justin  is  not  the 
Chameleon :  that  is  certain.  His  hue  is  too  unvary- 
ingly— green. 

Carrick.  He  understands  as  little  about  women 
as  any  of  us  understand  about — say,  to  preserve  the 
unities, — Truth. 


40  THE  CHAMELEON. 

HoNORA.  Well? — I've  been  digging  my  novel 
out  of  Justin's  mind  and  experience?  Yes?  And 
now  ?    Next  ? 

Carrick.  Oh,  as  to  that,  there's  no  earthly  rea- 
son why  you  shouldn't  dig  your  book  out  of  Justin 
— or  me — or  any  of  us.  Types  are  rare:  individu- 
als even  rarer.  And  Justin  is  an  individual.  But — 
er — don't — marry  Justin. 

(HoNORA  walks  deliberately  around  her  table  once 
and  then  faces  him,  with  sudden  good  humor, 
inscrutably.) 

HoNORA.    Why  not? 

Carrick.  {With  a  chagrined  laugh)  Brava! — 
The  only  woman  I  ever  met  who  could  argue.  Why 
shouldn't  you  marry  Justin?  Why,  you  should,  if 
you  want  to. —  And  it  would  be  in  keeping  with 
your  temperament  to  be  able  to  want  things —  Only 
— ^you  don't  want  to. 

HoNORA.  "  The  King  of  France  with  twenty 
thousand  men! " 

Carrick.  And  Justin  will,  of  course,  ask  you  to 
marry  him.     {Relighting  his  cigarette)     Because — 

HoNORA.    Because  ? 

Carrick.  Justin  is  so  prone  to  do  the  obvious 
thing:  (Ah,  the  Chameleon  grows  resplendent.) 
Because  he  thinks  he  understands  you  from  the 
beginning.  He  believes  in  one  simple  You. 
Whereas  you  are  not  a  woman ;  but  a  mind ;  a  Will, 
an  eagerness ;  an  illusion. —  And  you  have  a  right 
to  your  own  life ;  and  experiments. 

Honora.    Experiments  ? 

Carrick.  Mark  me.  I'm  quite  serious.  With 
your  temperament  and  will-power,  there  are  few 
things  you  could  not  do. 

HoNORA.  {With  gay  challenging)  Then  I  might 
even  fall  in  love  with  Justin,  if  I  tried? —  Do  you 
think  I  could? 


THE  CHAMELEON.  41 

Carrick.  (Piqued)  Ah, — already  .  .  .  And 
you'll  fool  him  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

HoNORA.  It's  more  than  likely. —  But  how  will 
the  chapter  end  ? 

(Enter  from  the  house  l.,  Reverend  Sylvester 
saying  "  Not  at  all,  not  at  all! "  and  escorting 
Mrs.  Shuttle  worth,  stout,  elderly,  deaf  and 
splendid, — followed  by  James  Roberts 
Thomas,  Ph.  D.,  with  a  MS.  under  his  arm, — 
Walter,  Rufus  and  Rose.) 

Carrick.  (Half  to  himself)  Most  timely  enter 
of  the  leading  heavy ! 

Rose.  We'll  have  our  tea  here,  Nora.  (I  don't 
believe  in  letting  them  work  too  long)  Here's  Aunt 
Eunice, — and  the  Reverend — and  Mr.  James! 

HoNORA.    You  mean  Roberts,  dear. 

Thomas.  I  beg  pardon, — Thomas.  It  is  rather 
confusing.  So  happy  to  have  caught  you  here.  Miss 
Thorpe,  at  last.  Walter  told  me  you  were  to  be 
found  here  almost  every  day;  in  the  library. 

HoNORA.  How  very  kind  of  you,  Walter.  (Goes 
to  the  cup-board  with  her  MSS.) 

(The  man,  Thomas,  brings  in  the  tea-things  and 
places  them  down  r.  by  Honora.  Rose,  Mrs. 
Shuttleworth  and  the  Reverend  Sylvester 
down  L.  The  others  about,  partaking  in  both 
conversations.) 

Thomas.  And  I  greeted  the  opportunity,  neces- 
sarily. I've  called  so  often  at  your  own  house,  and 
never  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  you  at  hime. 

Honora.    Oh!    (He  unfolds  a  MS.) 

Thomas.  I  want — yes,  yes — hm, — perhaps  after 
a  little.    But,  it  seems  a  bit  noisy. 

Honora.  Oh,  don't  think  of  it!  It's  far  too 
noisy.  ' 


42  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Thomas.  What  a  delightful  woman,  Mrs.  Shut- 
tleworth ! —  So  extraordinarily  appreciative  for 
one  of  her  years.  I  never  met  her  before,  you 
know.  But  I  found  her  an  enchanting  listener.  A 
rare  gift,  that,  of  listening  gracefully.  (Turning 
over  his  MS.    Honora  pours  tea) 

Reverend.  {To  Mrs.  Shuttleworth)  And 
how  are  you,  now-a-days,  dear  lady?  The — ah — 
difficulty  of  the — ah 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  {Touching  her  ear)  It 
come  and  goes;  it  comes  and  goes.  I  left  my  fan 
in  the  carriage,  I  think.  Ah,  here  comes  Justin. 
{Enter  Justin  with  her  fan)  Here —  Thank  you. 
{Holds  her  fan,  later,  between  her  teeth,  to  hear  the 
better)  Tell  me  again,  who's  that  young  man  talk- 
ing to  Honora. —  He  seems  to  be  very  full  of  in- 
formation ;  of  some  kind.  He  talked  to  me  uninter- 
ruptedly all  the  way,  as  we  drove  here,  but  I  didn't 
catch  a  word. 

(Reverend  replies  in  her  ear.) 

Thomas,  (r.  to  Honora  over  the  tray)  Oh, 
thank  you  very  much.  Is  this  for  me?  But,  I — 
er — if  you  please,  no  lemon  thank  you !  Only  a  lit- 
tle hot  water;  and  one  lump.  Oh,  no  Tea,  if  you 
please.  Only  a  Little  Hot  Water;  and  One  Lump, 
one  Lump. —  As  I  was  saying,  I  have  rarely  met  so 
keenly  appreciative  a — {Observes  Mrs.  Shuttle- 
worth  and  her  Fan — the  Reverend  shouting  in  her 
ear)    Oh,  dear  me,  is  it  possible? 

Honora.  I  fear  so. —  And  all  your  philosophy 
gone  to  waste ;  like  attar  of  rose. 

Thomas.  Oh,  you're  really  too  gracious. —  A 
heavy  trial  this,  of  deafness; —  Oh  no,  no  cake, 
thank  you ;  no  cake,  no  cake !  I  never  take  sweets. 
Save,  indeed,  the  one  Lump  with  a  little  hot  water. 

{Cuckoo-clock  chirps  five.) 


THE  CHAMELEON.  43 

Reverend.  What  a  vivacious  monitor!  Surely 
it's  new? 

Rose.  There !  I  told  them  it  was  needed.  I  put 
it  in  two  months  ago.  I  had  to  insist.  Before  that, 
you  see,  I  had  to  look  in  every  few  minutes  to  tell 
Justin  what  time  it  was.  (I  knev/  he  would  never 
stop  to  look  at  his  watch.)  One  has  to  take  such 
care  of  men  of  letters.  And  they  are  never  grate- 
ful. 

Carrick.    Ah,  really,  you  know!     (Crossing  l.) 

Rose.  So  nice  to  see  you.  I  found  your  card 
here,  on  the  table  this  morning.  So  stupid  of  them 
not  to  send  it  to  me.  I  v/as  close  by  in  the  summer- 
house. 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  (Loudly)  Who  is  that 
horsey  person  you  are  asking  to-morrow  evening  to 
meet  us? 

RuFUS.  (Quickly)  Kilmayne?  Ah,  you've  met 
him?  He's  an  old  friend  of  Rose's,  it  seems.  I 
don't  know  him. 

Rose.  I  used  to  know  him — very  slightly.  And 
I  thought  it  would  be  pleasant  to  ask  him.  He's 
stopping  with  the  Reverend.  He  used  to — to—  to 
ride  like  a  centaur! 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  A  centaur!  Most  un- 
pleasant idea.  A  centaur  at  the  table. — I  saw  him 
this  afternoon. 

RuFU.s.    And  can  he  talk  ? 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  H  he  can,  I  didn't  hear 
him. 

Reverend.  Oh,  you  may  be  sure  it  didn't  signify 
at  all.  But  he's  a  good  fellow,  Kilmayne:  good 
family.    Mother  was  a 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  I  insist  that  I  don't  want 
a  centaur  to  take  me  out  to  dinner,  ^lost  u^.pleas- 
ant  simile.    As  bad  as  a  two-headed  Girl. 

Reverend,  (l.)  Oh,  when  it  comes  to  that,  you 
know,  there  was  Cerberus  with  three  heads,  and  the 


44  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Hydra  with  any  number  of  heads  at  all !  I'm  sure 
he  found  them  all  convenient. 

HoNORA.     More  tea,  Reverend? 

Reverend.  Er — thank  you.  With  cream. 
(Genially)  And,  as  to  that,  you  know.  I  have 
sometimes  found  myself  wishing  that  I  had — er — 
tzvo  heads. 

Carrick.  Never !  Believe  me, — you  are  almost, 
an  ideal  type,  quite  as  you  are. 

Reverend.  "Almost!"  Ah,  but — (Viva- 
ciously) to  be  confidential,  I'd  like  to  be  ideal,  my- 
self; quite,  quite  Ideal.  Why  not,  indeed?  Why 
not?     (Cuckoo-clock) 

Justin,  (r.  to  Honora)  You  look  tired  and 
distraite.     What  has  anybody  been  saying  to  you? 

Honora.  What  indeed,  but  Quack-quack!  Baa- 
baa! 

Justin.  Poor  Truth!  I'll  get  them  away  as 
soon  as  I  can.    And  then  you'll  tell  me 

Honora.     Quack-quack!    Baa-baa! 

(Reverend  draws  near,  stirring  his  tea.) 

Justin.  You  need  some  tea.  (Pours  some  out 
for  her) 

Honora.  I  can't  say  anything  else.  I'm  catch- 
ing it. 

Justin.    I'll  break  the  spell.    Here. 

Honora.     Quack 

Thomas.  (Approaching)  You  look  as  if  you 
were  saying  something  so  interesting. 

Honora.     (Benignly)     Quack! — Baa-baa. 

Thomas.  You're  so  irresistibly  humorous.  A 
rare  gift  now-a-days,  that  of  true  humor.  I  often 
resent  the  lack  of  it  in  others.  As  I  say,  some- 
where in — let  me  see — (Taking  out  his  MS.  again) 
hm-hm, — yes,  yes 

Reverend,  (l.  to  Rose)  Extraordinary  thing, 
this  hour  of  five  o'clock.     No  matter  how  serious 


THE  CHAMELEON.  45 

one's  vocation,  talk  always  degenerates,  most  de- 
lightfully, into  a  kind  of — I  might  almost  say — er — 
Q'uach-quack — Baa-baa! 

Rose.    How  dear  of  you ! 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.    I  didn't  quite  catch  it. 

Reverend.     (Embarrassed)    Well  I — I 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  Surely  I  didn't  under- 
stand you  to  say  Quack,  quack  If 

Reverend.    I — er 


Mrs.  Shuttleworth.     What  is  the  point ?- 


RuFUS.  (Interposing)  Tell  us  more  about 
Kilmayne. 

Reverend.  Oh,  but  you'll  see  him  to-morrow. 
So  good  of  you  to  ask  us.  (Rises.  Justin  speaks 
with  him) 

Carrick.  (r.  to  Honora)  it's  awfully  banal,  you 
know,  to  read  the  ending  before  you  come  to  it. 
But  one  thing  is  clear,  in  the  largest  type. —  You've 
made  a  magnificent  fool  of  Justin. 

(M.RS.  Shuttleworth  rises  to  go.) 

Reverend.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all !  Thomas  and 
I  will  see  you  to  your  carriage. 

Carrick.  We  will  all  see  you  to  your  carriage, — 
And  I'll  carry  your  fan,  like  Peter. 

(Exeunt  all  but  Justin  and  Rufus:  Honora  last.) 

Justin.  (To  Honora)  Come  back.  Com^c 
Back! 

(Exit  Honora  l.) 

Rufus.  See  here.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  man 
who  was  angel-pecked?  Well,  I  am.  And  I  want 
a  v/ord  with  you  about  all  this  infernal  nonsense. 

Justin.    Non.sensc? 


46  THE  CHAMELEON. 

RuFus.  Yes.  To-morrow  night,  the  dinner ;  and 
the  old  sweethearts. 

Justin.  What  do  you  mean  by  it?  Rose  has 
just  unburdened  her  mind.  What  was  the  origin 
of  your  untimely  candor? 

RuFUS.  Untimely  it  was.  As  for  the  origin  of 
it, — it^s  Honora!  {Explosively)  For  a  good-look- 
ing girl,  with  brains  beside,  she  stirs  up  more 
trouble  in  the  world! —  That's  just  the  row.  Be 
brainy,  if  you  like;  but  hideous.  Or  be  good-look- 
ing if  you  can;  and  all  is  well. 

Justin.    What  has  Honora  got  to  do  with  it  ? 

RuFUS.  Honora  has  to  do  with  everything  that 
Rose  does !  Only  Rose  doesn't  know  it.  Honora 
makes  a  pattern,  of  some  fantasticality.  And  Rose 
cuts  up  everything  she  owns,  in  a  fever  of  emula- 
tion, and  tries  to  make  it  fit.    There  you  are. 

Justin.    But  the  widow!    Mrs.  Van  Wyck? 

RuFus.  The  devil  fly  away  with  her ! —  Haven't 
seen  her  for  years.  Boy's  first  love;  and  all  that. 
Laughed  at  a  fellow's  jokes.  All  wonder;  {Sketch- 
ing on  the  air)  and  bushy  hair;  and  arched  eye- 
brows, and  "Do  tell  me  all  about  it!  Precisely, 
what  do  you  mean?" —  Had  an  awfully  fetching 
laugh. — I  say! —  {Firmly)  Yes,  she  did!  When 
I  heard  she'd  married  somebody  I  was  all  broken 
up. 

Justin.    You  never  asked  her  to  marry  you? 

RuFus.  Certainly  not.  Nothing  but  a  boy.  I 
raked  up  all  this  to  satisfy  Rose's  thirst  for  a  per- 
fect confidence.  And  as  you  might  know,  it's  the 
first  and  last  time  I  ever  tell  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth. — Put  that  in  a 
footnote  of  your  "  Aspects  of  Truth."  I've  had 
enough  of  it ! — As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  really  does 
want  to  see  that  beggar,  Kilmayne. 

Justin.  Have  no  fear.  He's  a  sport,  and  noth- 
ing more. 


THE  CHAMELEON.  47 

RuFUS.  No  accounting  for  women.  They  love 
extremes.  Now  I'm  no  extreme.  I'm  neither  a 
sport,  nor  a  man  of  letters. — It  needn't  have  hap- 
pened. I  say  it's  too  damned  superfluous! — I'm 
thankful  Honora's  old  book  is  done. — It  ought  to  be 
illustrated  with  X-ray  plates,  and  bound  in  human 
skin. 

Justin.    Oh,  come! 

RuFUS.  She  has  set  the  household  by  the  ears ; — 
wasted  your  time;  stirred  up  trouble  between  Rose 
and  me,  put  everj^thing 

Justin.    Hold  on ! 

RuFUS.  — Asunder ; — throw^n  over  one  brother — - 

Justin.     She's  going  to  marry — the  other. 

RuFUS.    Who?    What?    How?    Not  me! 

Justin.     She's  going  to  marry  me. 

RuFUS.  You!  Honora? — My  dear  boy!  I  say 
— I  never  dreamed  of  it !  (Confounded)  All  this 
time — (Shaking  hands  madly) 

Justin.  Yes,  hush.  Not  a  word,  yet,  to  anyone. 
Have  your  cannibal  feast  to-morrow  night.  Face 
your  old  sweethearts,  and  see  how  they  look  to  you 
now.  But  don't  blame  this  nonsense  on  Nora. 
She  is  the  one  soul  of — Ah,  here  she  comes ! 

{Re-enter  Honora  l.  from  house.) 

Honora.  Justin — I  must  speak  to  you.  I  have 
something  to — (Seeing  Rufus)  Oh!  to-morrow, 
then.  To-morrow!  Another  time.  (Going  to- 
wards  garden  door) 

Rufus.  I  say,  wait  a  second, — Honora!  (To 
Justin)  Not  a  word  to  anyone  else. — I've  only 
heard  this  minute,  Nora.  And  truly,  I'm  more  glad 
than  I  can  say! — 'Though  Rose  would  never  have 
fallen  out  with  me,  you  see,  if  she  hadn't  been  bit- 
ten with  your  mania  for  truth,  you  know, — the  daz- 
zling truth  in  all  manner  of  damned  little  details. — 


48  THE  CHAMELEON. 

But  I  take  it  all  back.  (Joyously)  And  I  beg  your 
pardon.  You  know  I'm  awfully  fond  of  you,  Nora. 
Always  was. —  When  she  knows  you're  going  to 
marry  Justin 

HoNORA.     Ah ! 

Justin.    Had  to  tell  him,  Dear. 


RuFus.  Really  had  to! — You  settle  down;  and 
she'll  settle  down;  and  we'll  all  live  happily  ever 
after,  and  never  tell  the  truth  again! — I'm  mighty 
glad. — On  my  honor,  I  am.  You  were  bound  to 
marry  one  of  us.  I'm  proud  to  have  you  for  a  sis- 
ter. Better  late  than  never!  There. — (Enfolds 
HoNORA  in  a  brotherly  hug  to  the  bitter  wrath  of 
Justin,  and  kisses  her  left  ear  which  is  all  that's 
visible  of  her  face.    Honora  takes  flight,  hatless) 

HoNORA.    Oh,  Ruf us !    I — good-bye ! 

Justin.  Don't  go — You've  left  your  hat. 
Honora! — (Exit  RuFus  joyously  to  the  house  l.) 
Confound  him ! 

Honora.  ( Waving  him  away,  hysterically)  No, 
no — I  can't  stop.    Don't  come. — I'm  going. 

Justin.    You  wanted  to  tell  me  something. 

HoNORA.    Yes,  I  did.    But  I  don't. — I  must.    But 
I  can't. — To-morrow! — I  must  think: — I  must  go, 
I  must  run  away. — To-morrow !    To-morrow. 
(Hastens  out  c.) 

(Justin  holding  her  hat,  bewildered.  Rufus  re- 
enters L.  to  shake  his  hand  once  more  in  a  hurst 
of  jubilation. ) 

CURTAIN. 


THE  CHAMELEON.  49 

ACT  HI. 

Scene  I: — The  following  evening — The  library  is 
lighted  and  the  curtains  are  drawn.  Door  to 
the  House  l.  wide.  A  wood-fire  burning  on 
the  hearth.  The  high-backed  sofa  is  drawn  to 
face  the  fireplace.  A  lighted  lamp  on  the  table 
L.  Flowers  about.  Honora's  hat  on  the  head 
of  Hermes  as  in  Act  H. 

{Enter  l.  Honora  in  feverish  haste.  She  is  in 
evening  dress;  throws  her  fan  and  gloves  upon 
the  table,  and  pushes  her  hair  back  from  her 
temples,  with  distracted  relief.  She  sees  her 
Hat,  catches  it  from  Hermes  and  goes  to  the 
right-hand  cabinet  and  stuffs  the  Hat  in,  on 
top  of  her  MSS. — Then  she  looks  at  the  house- 
door  watchfully;  and  at  the  MSS.) 

Honora.  "  You  had  to  dig  it  out  of  some  man's 
heart.  And  Justin  was  the  man  to  let  you  do  it". 
{Between  her  teeth)  Yes, — he  was.  {Shuts  cab- 
inet quickly) 

{Enter  l.  Rose,  Mrs.  Shuttleworth  and  Mrs. 
Van  Wyck  followed  by  Thomas  the  man  with 
the  coffee  tray,  which  he  passes  and  leaves 
upon  a  low  table  near  Rose.  Mrs.  Van  Wyck 
slender,  silly  and  of  uncertain  age,  an  exagger- 
ation of  RuFus'  portrait  in  Act  H — utters  no 
laughter  at  present.  She  gazes  about  with  va- 
cant smiles  and  an  attempt  to  be  interested. 
Rose  triumphant  but  nervous.  Mrs.  Shuttle- 
worth  politely  hostile.) 

Rose.  This  is  my  brother-in-law's  work-shop, 
dear  Mrs.  Van  Wyck.  {Hastily  to  Honora,  aside) 
Isn't  it  fearful? — You  look  worn  out 


so  THE  CHAMELEON. 

HoNORA.    I  am. 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck.  (  With  vacant  rapture)  And 
this  is  where  he  writes! — How  quaint — ah  yes! 
And  it  will  be  so  interesting,  so  Intimate,  to  remem- 
ber this  room,  when  one  reads  Mr.  Hopefar's  new 
book, — the — ah — Aspects  of  Youth, — is  it  not? 
{Cuddling  up  to  Mrs.  Shuttleworth  upon  the 
smaller  settle,  down  r.  Mrs.  Sunttleworth  turns 
towards  her  with  an  effort) 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.    Eh? 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck.    (Loudly)  Aspects  of  Youth! 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.    What  is  the  point? 

HoNORA.  Aspects  of  Truth;  the  merest  matter 
of  a  rhyme!     (Clock  peals  nine) 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck.  Ah,  what  a  sweet  clock !  I'm 
so  devoted,  you  know,  to  all  old  things. 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  (Putting  up  her  fan)  I 
didn't  quite  catch ? 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck.  (In  a  high  voice)  I  was 
merely  saying,  I'm  so  devoted  to  All  Old  Things! 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  (Glaring  at  Honora  and 
ignoring  Mrs.  Van  Wyck)  Indeed? — Pray,  my 
dear  Honora, — is  it  really  true  that  this  book  of 
yours  has  something  to  do  with  Truth-telling? 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck.    How  quaint! 

Honora.  Yes,  something.  But  then,  it's  a  work 
of  fiction,  you  know. 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  Oh,  this  generation  has 
such  talent  for  making  a  cat's  cradle  of  a  simple 
matter  I 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck.    But  how  quaint ! 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  Eh?  Quaint  and  use- 
less; like  a  spinning-wheel  in  a  modem  drawing- 
room. 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck.  Ah,  do  you  think  so?  Now 
I'm  so  devoted  to  old  things. 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.    What's  that? 


THE  CHAMELEON.  51 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck.  I  simply  cannot  be  torn  from 
(Shrieking)  such  sweet  Old  Things!  (Smiles 
about  the  room) 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  (To  Honora)  Appar- 
ently, it  requires  personal  violence.  (Rose  draws 
Mrs.  Van  Wyck  away)  Will  you  exert  your 
modem  intelligence,  and  tell  me  why  my  niece  in- 
vited this  person  to  meet  met  Am  I  the  object  of 
her  antiquarian  interest?  (Mrs.  Van  Wyck's 
laugh  revives  brilliantly,  in  arpeggios)  That 
means,  the  Men  are  coming! 

(Enter  L.  Rufus,  Reverend  Sylvester,  Justin, 
Carrick,  Thomas  Ph.  D.,  and  Major  Kil- 
mayne  with  Walter.) 

Reverend.  (Entering)  Not  at  all — not  at  all! 
On  the  contrary,  I'm  sure  we  have  missed  some- 
thing better  worth  hearing. — Although,  dear  lady, — 
(Advancing  towards  Mrs.  Van  Wyck)  this  after- 
dinner  table  now-a-days  is  apt  to  degenerate  into 
the  merest — er — Quack — quack — Baa — baa!  Pour 
ainsi  dire! 

Mrs.  Van  Wyck.  (Laughing)  So  quaint  of 
you! 

Thomas,  (l.  to  Honora)  How  singuarly  ab- 
sent-minded! Do  you  know,  I'm  quite  positive  I 
heard  you  say  that  yesterday  to  Mr.  Sylvester.  But 
he  seems  not  to  recall  it. 

Carrick.  (To  Honora)  Really,  you  know, 
you'll  have  to  read  copy-right  law. 

Thomas.  You  have  such  a  gift  of  humor.  (A 
rare  gift,  that, — of  humor)  And  you  are  always — 
er — scattering  about  little  mots  like — er — a — pearls, 
— as  the  saying  goes,  before — er — a 

Honora.  (Debonairly)  But  what  is  one  to  do, 
if  one  utters  nothing  but  pearls 

Kilmayne.     (Nearby) — 'Aw! 


52  THE  CHAMELEON. 

HoNORA.    And  meets  chiefly — er — 


Thomas.  {With  loud  eagerness)  "Swine!" 
Yes,  yes. — Er — {Takes  sudden  thought;  looks  at 
her  again,  and  takes  his  coffee-cup  away  with 
dignity,  to  a  corner,  where  he  thinks  it  over,  frown- 
ingly) 

KiLMAYNE.     (Laughing) — 'aw ! — 'Aw ! — 'Aw. 

Mrs.  Shuttle  worth.  {To  Rufus  r.)  I  ob- 
serve that  your  Centaur  has  opened  his  mouth  at 
last.    What  did  he  say? 

Rufus.  (Looking  at  Rose) — 'Aw!  (Who 
draws  near) 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.    What  else? 

Rufus.  — 'Aw — 'Aw! — You  are  very  exacting. 
All  men  can't  talk  well.  He's  a  man  of  action.  He 
can  ride. 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  "  Like  a  Centaur !  "  Yes, 
I  know. 

Walter,  (r.)  And  so,  every  time  he  opens  his 
mouth, 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  Do  not  repeat  that  worn 
expression.     I  am  not  devoted  to  old  things. 

Walter.  This  isn't  old.  It's  greatly  improved. 
I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  every  time  he  opens  his 
mouth,  being  a  centaur,  he  puts  four  feet  in  it! 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.    Ugh! 

Rose.  Wat,  you  are  not  very  gracious  about  our 
guests. 

Walter.  AIi,  now ! — Let  me  be  helpful.  Which  ? 
— Mrs.  Van 

Rose.  No.  Let  Rufus  entertain  Mrs.  Van  Wyck. 
Talk  to  Major  Kilmayne.    He's  more  your  style. 

Walter.  Mine ! — well,  a  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
(Crosses  l.  and  joins  the  group  around  Honora. 
Reverend  is  saying) 

Reverend.  And  does  this  novel  of  yours, 
Honora,  exalt  your  extraordinary  views  of  matri- 
mony? 


THE  CHAMELEON.  53 

HoNORA.    Perhaps.  But  most  of  all,  it  exalts 

Carrick.    What  indeed? 

HoNORA.     Single  Blessedness. 

KiLMAYNE.    'Aw!     {Incredulously) 

Reverend.  Oh,  the  New  Woman,  the  New 
Woman!    The  dear,  dear  Selfish  thing! 

Honora.  Surely,  surely, — Single  Blessedness  is 
better  far  than  ....  Double  Cussedness? 

KiLMAYNE.     (Delighted)— 'Aw !— 'Aw !— 'Aw ! 

Walter.  (To  him)  You  will  lose  all  your 
idealism,  Kilmayne,  all  of  it,  if  you  listen  to  these 
cynical  opinions.  (Drawing  him  aside  towards 
Rose) 

Kilmayne.    'Aw — 'Aw !   "  Double  Cussedness !  " 

Walter.    Come. 

Kilmayne.    Deuced  clever  girl. — 'Aw ! 

Walter.     She  is  that. 

Kilmayne.        Never'd  know  she  wrote  books. 

Walter.    Why  not? 

Kilmayne.  So  deuced  clever.  'Aw! — Never 
read,  myself.    No  time. 

Walter.     Perfect  waste  of  time. 

Kilmayne.     Why  don't  she  marry? 

Walter.     (After  a  pause)     Too  deuced  clever. 

Kilmayne.    "  Double  " — 'aw — 'aw ! 

Walter.  (Thoughtfully  to  himself)  "Stands 
on  his  hinder  legs  with  listening  ear." 

Rose.  (Sweetly)  Do  take  Major  Kilmayne  to 
talk  to  Mrs.  Van  Wyck,  dear.  I've  bored  her  hor- 
ribly. She  won't  laugh  for  me.  (They  join  Mrs. 
Van  Wyck  whose  laugh  rings  higher) 

RuFus.  (To  Justin)  See  here. — Did  I  ever 
strike  you  as  an  imaginative  Man? 

Justin.    No. 

RuFus.    Well,  I  was. 

Justin.  That  wasn't  Imagination.  It  was 
Youth.  (He  drazvs  Rose  nearer) — Aren't  you  both 
glad  that  you  rebounded? — Ah,  laugh,  Sis,  laugh! 


54  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Rose.  You  mean,  that  for  me,  Truth  is  always 
to  be  incongruous  and  comic? 

Justin.  You're  not  calling  Kilmayne  comic? 
Haven't  you  any  reverence  for  a  young  girl's  ideal- 
ism ? 

RuFus.  Oh,  but  she'll  laugh  yet,  when  I  tell 
her 

Justin.    Hush. 


(Rose  crosses,  pettishly  to  Mrs.  Van  Wyck  and 
speaks;  Reverend  joins  Mrs.  Shuttleworth 
R.  and  speaks.) 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  Oh,  it  comes  and  goes. 
It  is  very  trying,  certainly. 

Rose.     Mrs.  Van  Wyck  is  going  to  sing  for  us. 

Mrs.  Shuttleworth.  But  there  are  compensa- 
tions. 

Reverend.  No  doubt, — no  doubt!  How  very 
sweetly  you  take  it. 

Rose.  I've  heard  so  much  of  Mrs.  Van  Wyck's 
voice. — And  now — so  good  of  you ! — we  are  to  hear 
it!  Shall  we  go  to  the  music  room? — {Leading  the 
way,  to  RuFUs)     Mrs.  Van  Wyck  is  going  to  sing. 

{Exeunt  l.   Rose,  Mrs.   Van   Wyck  Kilmayne, 
Mrs.  Shuttleworth  and  Reverend.) 

Justin.  {Slapping  Rufus  on  the  shoulder) 
Come.  Face  the  music!  {Outside,  a  chord  on  the 
piano,  a  prelude.  To  Carrick)  Come  you  Epi- 
curean ;  come  and  share  the  hardships  of  the  world. 

{Exeunt  Justin,  Rufus,  Carrick.  Honora  delays. 
Anon,  a  dramatic  soprano  uplifted  in  romantic 
song.  A  door  within,  closed  suddenly,  cuts 
it  off.) 

Walter.  What's  up?  You're  so  funny  this 
evening,  Nora.  You  look  used  up ;  and  you're  talk- 
ing like  a  riddle-book. 


THE  CHAMELEON.  55 

HoNORA.  Yes — So  I  am. — But  don't  wait  for 
me.  I  want  to  stay  here  later.  I  have  something 
more  to  do — ^to  the  book; — truly.  And  I'll  let — I'll 
let  Mr.  Thomas  take  me  home. 

Walter.  Thomas! — Turn  his  head  completely. 
Be  advised.  No?  Think  twice,  then.  /  won't  tell 
him.    I  positively  won't.     {Exit  l.) 

(HoNORA  darts  towards  the  right-hand  cupboard. 
Re-enter  Carrick  l.    She  turns  away.) 

Carrick.  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should  exert 
ourselves  further.  Let's  join  the  choir  invisible. 
(Coming  down)  May  I  tell  you? — You're  very 
lovely,  this  evening, 

Hqnora.  Oh,  do. — It's  so  like  what  they  say  in 
Books.  Rose  insists  that  men  don't  talk  that  way  in 
Real  Life, 

Carrick.  Ah !  Either  men  don't  talk  that  way 
to  Rose 


Honora.  Or  this  isn't  Real  Life!  {Laughs  and 
sits  down) 

Carrick.  Justin — takes  it  for  Real  Life,  you 
know. 

Honora.    Justin? 

Carrick.  Yes.  For  him,  the  Chameleon  is  all 
rainbow  color  to-day.  He's  radiant;  like  a  Romeo. 
It's  a  marvel  to  me  how  you've  managed  to — er — 
do  it.    And  you  so — distraite  1 

Honora.  I  thought  I  was  lovely  to  behold  this 
evening!  Now  you  admit  like  Rose,  that  I  look 
tired  out. 

Carrick.  All  the  more  beautiful.  You  are  as 
disquieting  and  double  as  Mona  Lisa. — And  Justin, 
our  sage,  doesn't  know  it. 

Honora.     Doesn't  he? 

Carrick.  Not  he!  Only  yesterday,  he  rather 
resented  my  reading  of  you.    For  him,  you  are  the 


S6  THE  CHAMELEON. 

soul  of  single  purpose;  and  your  one  desire  is  to 
follow  the  Truth,  and  see  where  it  takes  you.  Good 
old  Justin! — It's  charming.  Far  be  it  from  me  to 
poke  fun  at  Justin.  He's  an  original.  Besides, — 
I'm  on  his  hands  to-night.  I  can't  laugh  at  him  till 
to-morrow.  May  I  run  over  and  see  you,  by  the 
bye, — early  ? 

HoNORA.    Oh,  as  early  as  you  will. 

Carrick.  Thanks.  Maybe,  you  know,  I  shan't 
laugh  then.    For  I  don't  know  the  end  of  the  story. 

HoNORA.    The  Chameleon? 

Carrick.    Yes;  the  end  of  the  Chameleon. 

HoNORA.  No.  No,  I  believe  you  don't.  That's 
one  thing  you've  helped  me  to, — a  new  ending. 

Carrick.    Might  one  know  if  it  is  good  or  bad? 

HoNORA.    Both. 

Carrick.  Ah,  you  do  keep  us  guessing.  Well, 
I'll  wait;  until  to-morrow.  And  don't  forget  my 
counsel. 

HoNORA.    You  think  I'm  very  double,  don't  you  ? 

Carrick.  O  blessed  Singleness!  did  I  say  that? 
I  mean  merely,  you  are  a  woman  with  a  mind. 

HoNORA.  Let  me  tell  you  then:  I  believe  you 
have  made  me  see  Justin  .  .  .  for  the  first  time. 

Carrick.    That's  candid. 

HoNORA.  {Doggedly)  On  the  contrary,  it's  as 
double  as  anything  can  be!  But  you  have  shown 
me  much  about  Justin,  and  about  myself.  And  I — 
I  thank  you. 

Carrick.  When  the  New  Woman  tries  to  hit  it 
off  with  the  old  Adam  you  know, — something  goes 
to  pieces. 

HoNORA.    Yes,  something. 

{Re-enter  Justin  l.) 

Justin.    You're  wanted,  Honora. 
Carrick.    And  I?    (Rising) 


THE  CHAMELEON.  57 

Justin.    They  clamor  for  you  in  the  music-room. 
HoNORA.     Yes,  yes,  of  course.     I  ought  to  go 
back.     (Rising) 

(Exit  Carrick  l.    Honora  crosses  l.    Justin  bars 
the  way,  coming  down.) 

Justin.  I  want  you. — Never  mind  the  others. 
Oh,  I  thought  this  thing  would  never  be  over.  Not 
a  word  with  you  since  yesterday, — a  thousand  days 
ago ; — since  you  ran  avv'ay  through  the  garden,  with 
your  words  unspoken,  and  good  heavens!  .  .  . 
Rufus,  Rufus — to  think  of  Rufus — kissing  you ! 

HoNORA.  Oh,  no,  no,  no!  He  didn't.  It  was 
just  the  very  edge  of  my  ear,  somewhere.  It  didn't 
happen. 

Justin.  It  was  torment.  How  can  you  under- 
stand? And  the  poor  fool  didn't  know — what  a 
poor  fool  stood  looking  on !  That,  at  least  I  won't 
stand  again. 

Honora.  But  Justin —  Wait, — listen!  I  have 
so  wanted  to  speak  to  you — all  to-day;  and  yester- 
day .  .  .    about — about — the  Book. 

Justin.  Ah,  don't  waste  this  moment,  now! — 
(He  takes  her  in  his  arms.  She  stands  with  her 
face  hidden  on  his  breast,  while  he  goes  on,  ex- 
ultantly) I  have  waited  so  long.  I  have  thought 
of  you — and  looked  at  you — and  loved  you — as  all 
bright  dreams — as  youth ;  and  Truth  and  Honor, — 
and  Life.  But  to  hold  you  here, — something  like  a 
woman,  I  suppose,  .  .  .  more  like  a  stray  child, 
.  .  .  to  live  and  die  for ! — My  love. 

(He  lifts  her  face  from  his  coat,  looks  down  an  in- 
stant on  her  shut  eyelids;  and  kisses  her. 
HoNORA  blindly  releases  herself,  and  reaches 
towards  the  back  of  a  chair,  with  a  little 
moan.) 


58  THE  CHAMELEON. 

HoNORA.  Ah — Justin! — {In  a  struggling  voice) 
I  have  tried  to  tell  you.  I  have  tried  .  .  .  Now  I 
must, — I  must. 

Justin.    Honora ? 

HoNORA.    Oh,  how  can  I  tell  you  ? 

Justin.  You  can  tell  me  anything,  my  dearest; — 
as  you  always  have. 

Honora.  Yes,  yes,  I  have  told  you  the  truth, 
haven't  I  ?  in  all  manner  of  small  things.    Always ! 

Justin.    Always. 

HoNORA.  But  they  were  so  small, — The  great 
thing,  Justin, — all  summer  long — has  not  been  true. 
— And  I  half  knew  it!  I  half  knew  it!  Only  I 
couldn't  tell  you.    I  let  you  go  on  believing. 

Justin.     Believing  .  .  .  that  you  loved  me? 

HoNORA.  Yes,  I  let  you  think  that.  I  was  pos- 
sessed to  know — to  know — .  To  know  what  people 
and  things  are;  and  what  a  man's  heart  is;  and 
what  he  thinks  ...  a  woman  may  be  1 

Justin.    Ah ! 

Honor  A.  {Passionately)  You  are  the  only 
creature  I  ever  saw,  who  trusted  me  as  I  longed  to 
be  trusted.  And  that  belief  alone  v/as  so  beautiful 
to  me, — so  beautiful,  I  came  to  forget  what  it  was 
that  you  believed  in.  And  I — made  use  of  you! 
I  let  you  love  me.  I  adorned  myself  with  your  love, 
because  it  made  me  feel  all-beautiful: — as  we  long 
to  be. — I  myself. — I  did  so  love  to  be  loved ! 

Justin.     Oh,  child 

HoNORA.  And  I  did  not  know — what  Love — 
was. — I  pretended.  Yes,  yes,  I  pretended  all  the 
time. — I  don't  myself  know  how  much ! — It  was  all 
such  a  new  world.  I  seemed  to  walk,  and  see,  and 
be  myself,  for  the  first  time.  I  looked  at  the  world 
through  your  mind.  I  made  the  Book  of  you; — 
that  wretched  Book !  I  wrote  it,  like  a  thief, — out 
of  your  mind  and  heart.  .  .  .  These  last  few 
days, 


THE  CHAMELEON.  59 

Justin.    I  see. 

HoNORA.  I  have  been  so  wretched.  I  tried  to 
find  words  ... 

Justin.    I  see. 

HoNORA.  I  might  even  have  let  it  all  go  on.  But 
something  opened  my  eyes. 

Justin.    Opened  your  eyes  ? 

HoNORA.  To  the  fraud  I  had  been.  / — Truth, — 
and  bright  dreams,  and  honor !  Dreams,  if  you  like, 
that  have  no  home — and  deserve  no  home! — But 
Truth,—// 

Justin.  Something  opened  your  eyes.  And  you 
learned 

Honora.  That  I  had  never  known — before  .  .  . 
what  Love  is. — I  have  taken  that  name  in  vain. 

Justin.    Then  it  was  all — mirage. 

HoNORA.  (Repressing  herself)  It  was  all  .  .  . 
oh,  I  shall  atone.     Believe  that: — I  shall  atone. 

Justin.    There  is  no  question  of  atonement. 

HoNORA.  There  is :  and  it  is  mine.  Oh,  go  away, 
Justin;  go  away.  (Wildly)  I  have  said  enough. 
I  do  not  want  to  say  more. 

Justin.    My  child,  I  will  not  trouble  you. 

(HoNORA  bursts  into  tears.  He  makes  a  step  to- 
ward her  but  she  motions  him  away.) 

HoNORA.  No,  no. — Justin,  I  implore  you, — go 
away.  I  do  not  want  to  say  more.  /  must  not! — 
Heaven  knows  I  want  to — I  want  to.  But  I  will 
not! 

(Justin  turns  back  from  the  garden-door,) 

Justin.  There  must  be  something  here  I  do  not 
understand.  H  it  is  your  will  to  leave  me  blind,  I 
will  go.  But  one  word. — Is  this  the  truth,  nowf 
Or  am  I  dreaming? 


6o  THE  CHAMELEON. 

HoNORA.     It  is  true.     Go  away — go  away! 

Justin.  Is  it  all  ?  Are  you  telling  me  the  whole 
truth,  now? 

HoNORA.  No ! — Not  even  now !  Not  the  ivhole 
truth: — no — no — no!  {He  turns  and  goes  out  by 
the  garden  door.  Honora  hears  the  door  close; 
springs  up,  drying  her  eyes  feverishly,  and  tries  to 
calm  herself.  Then  she  crosses  r.  to  the  cup-hoard 
that  holds  her  MSS.  and  pauses,  with  her  hand  on 
the  lock) 

{Re-enter  l.  from  the  house,  Thomas  Ph.  D.,  with 
his  hat  and  coat  in  his  hands. ) 

Thomas.  You  look  as  if  you  were  thinking  of 
something  so  interesting,  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me 
for  interrupting.     Won't  you? 

Honora.  {Faintly)  Oh — oh,  of  course.  I — 
How  do  you  do?  I  thought  everyone  had  gone — 
home. 

Thomas.  {Delightedly)  Yes,  everyone  else  has ! 
I'm  always  perfectly  sure,  you  know,  to  stay  and 
lock  up  the  house!  You  see,  I  heard  you  say  that 
you  thought  of  staying  here  in  the  library,  late; 
and  I  thought  it  would  be  perhaps  my  last  oppor- 
tunity.. {Taking  his  thesis  out  of  his  overcoat 
pocket)   ...  If  it  v/on't  bore  you! 

Honora.    Oh,  how  could  it !     {Despairing) 

Thomas.  You're  so  very  gracious. — Really,  I 
shall  be  indebted  to  you. — So  I  said  good-night  to 
our  hostess;  and  indeed  I  believe  she  thinks  I  have 
gone  home !  But  I  couldn't  resist  making  one  more 
effort — to  get  your  opinion  on  my  thesis.  I  have  it 
here — in  my  overcoat  pocket;  that  is,  a  portion  of 
it.  {Archly)  You  won't  run  away  from  me,  now, 
— will  you? 

Honora.  {Meekly)  Oh,  no,  indeed. — I — I'm 
too — too  tired  to  run. 


THE  CHAMELEON.  6i 

Thomas.  You  know,  your  humor  always  seems 
to  me  the  most  delightful  thing.  Som^ehow,  you 
have-  the  gift  of  drawing  me  out,  as  no  one  else 
does.  I'm  a  bit  diffident, — socially,  as  a  rule.  But 
A/ith  you,  never! 

HoNORA.  (Keeping  well  to  the  right  and  trying 
to  conceal  her  tears)  Oh,  really? — How  warm  it 
is.  Shall  we — turn  down  the  lights?  My  eyes  are 
— a  bit — tired.  {She  turns  out  the  lamp  r.  and 
points  to  the  chair  and  table  l.  c.  for  Thomas) 
Don't  you  want  to  sit  there,  by  the  lamp? — And  er 
— read  me  a — a  page  or  two  ?  And  I  will  stay  here, 
v/here  the  light  doesn't  hurt — my  eyes.  (Stifling  a 
sob.  She  sits  upon  the  sofa  before  the  fire  so  that 
the  high  back  conceals  her.  She  curls  up  there 
against  the  cushions,  facing  front) 

Thomas.    But  I  can't  see  you ! 

HoNOKA.  But  I  can  hear,  perfectly. — And  I — it 
feels — a  little — cold. 

Thomas.  Indeed,  indeed!  (He  sits  l.  c.  beside 
the  lamp,  bustling  over  his  papers;  and  at  length 
begins  on  the  title,  with  elaborate  emphasis.  Just 
before,  someone  outside  begins  to  play  softly,  on 
the  piano.     The  music  comes  dimly) 

(HoNGKA,  exhausted,  tucks  up  her  feet  en  the 
sofa  also,  and  sinks  back,  the  picture  of  desolation. 
Her  eyes  shut)  The — ah — subject,  of  course,  I 
have  told  you. — "  The  Influence  of  Imperfect  Co- 
ordinatioii  of  the  Cerebral  Hemispheres  on  some 
Phenomena  resembling  Conscious  Unveracity,  oc- 
curring in  the  Lov.xr  Vertebrates:  Based  upon  a 
Sympathetic  Study  of  the  Psychic  Processes  of  the 
Guinea-Pig."  (Music  goes  on  softly)  Hm — yes, 
yes.  I  think  that  may  be  called  thoroughly  inclu- 
sive. "  Influence — Co-ordination — Cerebral  Hemi- 
spheres, of  course—Phenomena  resembling  Con- 
scious Unveracity — Lower  Vertcbiates.  Based 
upon  a  Smpatlietic  study  of  the  Psychic  Processes 


62  THE  CHAMELEON. 

of  the  Guinea-Pig."  (Music  stops)  Ah,  now  we 
can  be  undisturbed! — I  must  say  that  I  have  no 
fondness  for  reading  science  to  a  musical  accom- 
paniment. It  may  be  all  very  well  for  Enoch  Arden. 
But  it  must  needs  be  most  disconcerting  to  you  and 
me.  I  fear  this  paragraph  has  been  lost  upon  you. — 
Shall  I — er — re-read  it? — {Silence  from  Honora) 
No  trouble  at  all,  I  assure  you.  I  should  enjoy  it. 
But  first,  do  tell  me  if  the  title  seems  to  you  quite 
comprehensive.  {Silence)  Off-hand,  you  know. 
Of  course  it  takes  time  and  thought.  Oh,  don't  give 
it  too  much  thought  you  know.  Awfully  good  of 
you! — May  I  take  that  as  a  compliment?  Thank 
you  so  much. — Oh,  don't  weigh  it  too  heavily,  you 
know!  I  should  like  very  much,  as  a  specialist,  to 
know  precisely  how  that  title  will  strike  the  lay 
mind.  You  are  doubtful  ? — Tell  me,  I  beg.  Shall  I 
re-read  it? — Perhaps  you'd  like  to  cast  your  eye 
upon  it  yourself.  Quite  so;  quite  so! — {Rises  and 
cross  R.  with  his  MSS.  Her  silence  strikes  him. 
He  adjusts  his  glasses,  uneasily  and  walks  around 
the  settle,  looks  at  her  with  hitter  incredulity.  She 
is  asleep.    Pause.) 

{Overcome  with  vexation,  Thomas  Ph.  D.  tiptoes 
away,  glares  at  the  house-door  l.  and  the  gar- 
den-door  c. — listens,  looks,  bundles  up  his 
thesis,  jealously.  Then  with  one  parting  look, 
he  puts  on  his  overcoat,  takes  his  hat,  and  with 
an  air  of  offended  dignity,  goes  out  c,  by  the 
garden  door.) 

(Enter  l.  from  the  house,  Thomas  the  butler  with 
a  lighted  candle,  to  lock  up.  He  bars  the  win- 
dows and  door  c,  draws  the  curtains,  looks 
about,  without  seeing  Honora;  puts  out  the 
lamps;  and  taking  with  him  a  forgotten  coffee- 
cup  from  the  table,  goes  out  l.,  to  the  house, 
locking  the  door  behind  him,  audibly.) 


THE  CHAMELEON.  63 

{The  stage  is  dark;  save  for  a  gleam  of  fire-light, 
HoNORA  sleeps.  The  voice  of  the  cuckoo  peals 
twelve  o* clock.) 

CURTAIN. 

(The  curtain  remains  down  for  one  moment  only.) 

Scene  H  : — The  same.  Stage  dork,  save  for  a 
gleam  of  fire-light.  Honora  asleep.  The 
cuckoo-clock  sounds  twice.  Honora  stirs, 
turns,  wakes,  and  sits  up,  dazed.  She  looks  at 
the  fire  and  round  the  room,  uttering  faint  ex- 
clcmctions  of  dismay  as  she  realizes  the  situa- 
tion. 

Honora.  Oh — ?  (She  springs  up  and  feels  her 
way  to  the  door  c.  shut  and  bolted;  then  to  the 
house-door  l.  locked  on  the  other  side)  Oh! 
(Wildly  under-breath  crossing  to  the  table  near  the 
fireplace  r.)  Where  was  that  candle?  Where  was 
that  candle? 

(Finding  the  candle,  she  takes  it,  and  lights  it 
with  frantic  haste,  from  the  wood-fire.  Then  she 
steals  over  to  the  house-steps  and  inspects  the  clock 
with  another  horror-stricken)     Oh! — 

(She  comes  down,  evidently  trying  to  piece 
things  together  and  account  for  the  situation;  looks 
at  the  table  where  Thomas  had  sat,  and  shakes  her 
fist  at  them  darkly)  That  was  how! — that  was 
how ! — But  why  didn't  they  find  me  ? — Oh,  I  see,  I 
see.  And  I  never  asked  him.  And  they  thought  I'd 
gone  home.  And  nobody  found  me. — And  I'm  glad. 
I'm  not  worth  looking  for!  (Sobbing)  And  here 
I  am,  here  I  am  again, — like  a  b-bad  Penny. 
(Desolately) — Oh! — (Cuckoo-clock  sounds  once, 
for  2:30  a.  m.)  Oh,  you  silly  bird, — I'm  sorry!  I 
didn't  mean  it.  I'm  glad  you're  not  deaf  and  dumb 
after  all.    Oh  good-bye,  you  idiotic  creature ! 

(Stands  up  resolutely,  with  a  sudden  thought) 


64  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Good.  I  have  been  trying  to  do  it,  all  these 
days.  Now  I'm  locked  in,  with  my  penance!  I 
v/ill  do  it  now.  I  will  do  it  now.  {She  puts  her 
arms  around  the  bust  of  Hermes  and  weeps  upon 
his  shoulder)  Oh — Oh — good-bye,  you  stupid 
lovely  thing.  I'll  never  tease  you  with  my  hateful 
hat  any  more. 

(Crossifig  r.  she  pauses  before  the  left-hand  cup- 
board that  holds  Justin's  MSS.  and  kisses  her 
hands  which  she  presses  against  the  door)  Ah — 
Justin's  Beautiful  Book! — I  don't  dare  kiss  you — 
But  do  forgive  me.     You  shall  see — 

{She  backs  away;  draws  a  long  breath,  then  goes 
quickly  to  her  own  cup-board;  takes  out  first  her 
Hat,  which  she  shakes  off,  on  the  floor — then  the 
MSS.  of  her  Book.  She  gathers  it  into  her  hands, 
with  alternate  scorn  and  longing)  Ah — you  miser- 
able Sinner, — you  poor,  poor — darling — oh — {Kiss- 
ing it  madly)  How  can  I?  How  can  I? — Yes,  I 
can.  I  can.  {Fiercely)  And  I  will — I  will — I 
will.    It's  the  only  way.    It's  all  I  have. — 

{She  holds  it  close  against  her  breast  for  a  mo- 
ment, with  her  face  set.  Then  mutters)  Good- 
bye— good-bye — good-bye — ! 

{She  throws  it  into  the  fireplace;  then  kneels 
down,  and  with  her  arm  before  her  eyes,  heaps 
paper  and  ashes  together;  and  revives  the  flame 
with  the  bellows.  It  flares  up.  Sound  of  a  hand  on 
the  house-door  knob.  Then  the  key  grates  in  the 
lock.  HoNORA  starts  up  like  a  deer;  blows  out  her 
candle  instantly;  and  crouches  between  the  high 
settle  and  the  fireplace,  peering  with  great  eyes) 

{The  house-door  "L.  opens.  £n/^r  Justin.  He  is 
still  in  evening  dress  and  carries  a  lighted  candle. 
He  shuts  the  door  behind  him  and  comes  down, 
slowly,  his  face  pale  and  set.  Mechanically,  he 
places  his  candle  on  the  table  l.  c.  and  crosses  R. 
and  sits,  facing  Honora's  old  place  down  l.) 


THE  CHAMELEON.  65 

(HoNCRA  R.  meanwhile  creeps  on  her  hands  and 
knees  behind  the  settle,  up  towards  the  hack  of  the 
stage,  and  zvatches  frm  her  hiding-place  with  more 
and  more  wonder  atid  misery.  Justin  disturbed 
by  evident  reminiscence,  turns  away  slightly,  and 
looks  into  space,  evidently  taking  some  resolve. 
Then  with  a  sharp  sigh,  he  rises  suddenly,  and  turns 
to  his  left-hand  cabinet.  Honora  creeps  c.  as  he 
turns  R.) 

{He  opens  the  cupboard  and  takes  out  his  MS.; 
holds  it  a  mome^it,  thinking — then  he  goes  towards 
the  fireplace.    He  sits  upon  the  settle  facing  it.) 

(HoNORA  watches  with  horrified  amazement.) 

(He  takes  a  handful  of  pages  and  puts  them  in 
the  fire) 

(HoNORA  springs  out  of  hiding  and  falls  on  her 
knees  by  the  edge  of  the  settle,  catching  his  arm. 
HoNORA,  piteously)    No,  no ! — no,  no — no,  no ! 

(Justin,  violently  startled,  turns  and  sees  her,  then 
he  rises.) 

Justin.  You — Honora! — Here?  What  does 
this  mean  ? 

Ho  NORA.    I  don't  know. 

Justin,    Why  are  you  not  at  home?  ^ 

Honora.  I  don't  know.  I  meant  to  go  home; 
but  nobody  took  me.  I  mean — I  went  to  sleep, 
somehow.  And  nobody  found  me.  (He  stands 
looking  at  her  in  deep  perplexity.  She  replies, 
equally  dazed,  like  a  tired  child)  Wlien  I  woke  up, 
I  was  here,  locked  in. 

Justin.    You  poor  child. 

Honora.  {Weeping)  Oh,  don't — don't  say  that, 
after  all  I  have  been.    I  cannot  bear  it ! 

Justin.    I  must  take  you  home. 

Honora.  Oh,  don't — don't  take  me  home!  No 
one  has  missed  me,  yet.    I'll  go,  whenever  it's  light. 


66  THE  CHAMELEON. 

But  your  Book, — your  Book.  What  were  you  going 
to  do  to  your  Book? 

Justin.  {Laying  aside  the  MS.  on  the  settle) 
Oh,  never  mind  the  book.  Of  course  I  did  not 
dream  that  you  were  here. 

Ho  NORA.  Tell  me  the  truth.  You  were  going  to 
bum  it? 

Justin.  {After  a  pause)  Yes.  I'm  going  to 
burn  it. 

HoNORA.  {Stifling  a  scream)  Justin,  no,  no! — 
Oh,  Justin,  it  is  not  like  you,  to  be  so  cruel. 

Justin.    Cruel  ? 

HoNORA.  You  mean,  it  is  ruined;  because  there 
was  so  much  of  me  there,  as  you  said. 

Justin.  Oh,  my  child,  do  you  think  I  bum  it,  to 
be  cruel? 

HoNORA.  No, — no.  But  why  do  you  want  to 
bum  it?  Why, — ^why?  Tell  me.  I  can  stand  it. 
I  must  know. 

Justin.  Why, — I  meant  to  bum  it,  because  it 
seemed  to  me  .  .  .  worthless. 

HoNORA.     Not  tme?    Not  true? 

Justin.    Not  true. 

HoNORA.    Because  of  me ! 

Justin.  Don't.  Let  us  say:  It  is  not  the  book 
I  meant  to  write.  It  is  not  the  book  I  thought  I  had 
written.  Surely  you  understand  that.  Let  us  call 
the  whole  thing  a  dream,  merely.  But  let  me  bum 
up,  now — everything  that  was  not — Real.  {Takes 
the  MS.  up.  With  a  cry,  Honora  flings  herself 
upon  it,  and  takes  it  from  him)     Honora ! 

Honora.  Come  away.  Come  away  from  the  fire. 
I'll  tell  you  all.  But  you  must  promise  me  not  to 
bum  it.  You  will  kill  me,  if  you  bum  it.  You  will 
put  me  out  of  the  world !    I'll  tell  you  all. 

Justin.    All ? 

Honora.  You  know  I  told  you,  last  night,  it  was 
not  the  whole  truth;  not  the  whole.    But  you  shall 


THE  CHAMELEON.  67 

have  the  whole  truth  now.  Because  it's  my  pen- 
ance, and  I  must.  Now  that  you  care  no  longer, — 
now  that  I've  ruined  the  book; — now  that  I'm 
none  of  those  things  you  loved  me  for, — now  that 
I'm  dethroned 

Justin.    Honora ! 

HoNORA.  (Tonelessly)  It's  now, — I  love  you. 
I  love  you.  I  never  knew  what  it  meant — before. 
(Justin  takes  a  step  towards  her,  never  moving  his 
eyes  from  her  face.  She  shrinks  from  him  a  little; 
then  goes  on)  I  tried  so  not  to  tell  you,  last  night. 
For  I  knew  you  would  try  then,  to  make  it  all  seem 
well, — for  my  sake.  And  I  had  not  been  Real — 
until  then.  It's  not  easy.  (She  catches  his  intense, 
sad  look  and  cries)     Oh — you  don't  believe  me! 

Justin.    I  try  to  understand.    But — child 

HoNORA.   I  tell  you,  now, — only  to  save  the  Book. 

Justin.     Yes. — That's  only  too  clear. 

HoNORA.  Clear? — You — don't  believe  me?  Oh, 
I  see,  {brokenly)  I  see.  How  childish  of  me.  But 
I'll  make  you  understand.  Didn't  I  know  you  well 
enough,  to  know  that  you  could  never  love  me, 
when  you  learned  of  my  pretending  all  this  summer 
long?  Oh,  yes,  I  knew  that  well.  But  these  last 
few  days,  my  eyes  were  opened  to  what  I  had  been 
doing.  I  saw  myself.  And  I  saw  you.  And  then, 
last  night,  ...  I  loved  you.  And  I  saw  that  I  had 
never  understood,  before. 

Justin.    Honora 

HoNORA.  So  don't  punish  this!  {Holding  out 
the  Book)  I  tell  you  only  for  penance.  And — I've 
burned — mine. 

Justin.  What  do  you  mean?  You've  burned 
what? 

HoNORA.  My  Book.  He  said  I  had  written  it 
out  of  your  heart.  And  that  was  true. — I  didn't 
know  what  love  was,  though  I'd  said  so  much  about 
it.    Now  I  know.    It's — This.    {She  adds  vacantly) 


68  THE  CHAMELEON. 

So  I — burned  the  Book.  (Justin  turns  to  the  fire- 
place and  catches  up,  with  incredulous  pain,  a  hand- 
ful of  scraps.  As  he  turns  back  to  her,  speechless, 
HoNORA,  half  smiling)  You  see,  there's  nothing 
left  but  the  Truth;  and  this.  (Touching  his  Book 
wistfully.    He  catches  it  from  her) 

Justin.  Nothing — nothing — nothing  but  the 
truth!  (He  tosses  the  book  into  the  fireplace, 
catches  Honora  in  his  arms  and  holds  her  there, 
fast) 

Honora.     (Struggling)     The  Book — Justin! 

Justin.  I  have  the  truth.  I  have  you.  I  want 
nothing  more — nothing — nothing ! 

Honora.    It  was  so  Beautiful ! 

Justin.    Not  beautiful  enough. 

Honora.    Oh,  it  was  true ! 

Justin^    Not  true  enough. 

Honora.    Oh,  what  will  you  have? 

Justin.    Say  it — say  it. 

Honora.  I  love  you — I  love  you.  You  are 
everything  I  have  in  the  world. 

Justin.  Ah!  (They  fold  each  other  in.  After 
a  pause,  Justin  says  radiantly)  Was  anything  ever 
true  before? 

Honora.  No.  I  feel  new-born.  Ah,  but  your 
Book! 

Justin.  Who  wants  it?  I'll  begin  a  better  one 
to-morrow.  We'll  both  begin — To-day!  (Looking 
at  the  clock)  Do  you  know,  it's  morning!  The 
First  Morning! 

Honora.    And  you  are  the  first  Man  I  ever  saw. 

Justin.  Ah,  I  knew  you  long  ago,  for  the  First 
Woman.    And  you've  come  true ! 

(Cuckoo-clock  peals  four.) 

Honora.    Oh,  that  disgracefully  early  bird ! 
Justin.       Oh,     darling — Worm!       (Embracing 


THE  CHAMELEON.  69 

her)  What  shall  I  do  for  you  ?  You  Child — tired, 
hungry,  cold,  lost. 

HoNORA.    Must  I  go  home? 

Justin.  Home?  I  am  home;  and  I  am  he. 
(Unhooks  a  portiere  from  the  French  window  Up 
R.)  Here  is  a  cloak  for  you.  {Wraps  it  around 
her.  Blows  out  his  candle.  Pushes  back  the  cur- 
tains. It  is  dawn  outside)  Now  then; — Food! 
Shall  I  rouse  them? 

HoNORA.     No,  no! 

Justin.  Look  out.  (They  go  to  the  window  to- 
gether) Behold — the  garden  of  Eden! — And  yon 
herd  of  beautiful  beasts, — golden  and  cinnebar — 
stars  on  their  foreheads : — horns  of  pearl !  What 
do  you  call  that  creature,  Eve?  It  isn't  a  river- 
horse,  surely. 

HoNORA.    Let  it  be  named  Cow,  my  dearest. 

Justin.  And  shall  I — I  have  it!  (Suddenly) 
Something  to  eat! — Grapes,  grapes,  growing  all 
over  the  summer-house! 

(Exit  R.   c.    through   the  French   window — Stage 
grows  lighter.     Honora  calls  softly.) 

Honora.  Don't  be  gone — long.  I'm  afraid,  all 
alone  .  .  in  such  a  nevv^  v/orld;  and  the  very  first 
morning  I 

(She  turns  hack  to  the  room  zvith  a  rapturous  sigh: 
goes  up  to  Hermes  and  hugs  him) 

(Re-enter  Justin  with  grapes  and  leaves.) 

Justin.  Come  from  the  thing  of  clay!  (She 
turns  to  him  and  sees  her  Hat  on  the  floor) 

Honora.  I'll  burn  that,  too.  The  deceitful  thing, 
all  frills  and  pretences ! 


70  THE  CHAMELEON. 

Justin.  No,  no! — Books  if  you  will.  But  not 
the  Hat! 

HoNORA.  Yes,  I  will  bum  my  Hat,  too !  (Stuffs 
it  in  the  fire.)    I  will! 

Justin.  Eat, — eat !  I  have  brought  you  the  best 
of  Eden.  (Voices  in  the  house  l.) — By  Jove, 
they're  up. 

HoNORA.    Oh,  oh,  the  time,  the  explanations ! 

(Justin  rushes  to  the  cuckoo-clock.) 

Justin.  Shall  it  be  early  or  late?  Speak.  It's 
any  time  you  like. — It's  the  golden  age.  (He  twists 
the  hands  backward,  forward,  round,  recklessly  to 
six.  The  cuckoo  shrills  and  keeps  on  shrilling; 
voices  approach) 

HoNORA.  Oh,  Justin — the  bird,  the  bird !  You've 
upset  him  altogether! 

(Justin  hastens  down  the  steps,  and  stands  before 
HoNORA,  down  R.  c,  who  is  still  enveloped  in 
her  curtain  and  shaking  with  laughter.  The 
Cuckoo  chirrups  without  intermission  during 
the  rapid  dialogue  and  chorus  that  follows: 
The  house-door  l.  opens,  admitting  Rufus,  in 
the  evening  dress  of  Act  III.  Rose,  likewise, 
with  a  long  wrap;  Walter,  dishabille  and  ul- 
ster; Carrick  in  a  great  coat;  last  of  all, 
Thomas  Ph.  D.,  in  miscellaneous  tendings. 
They  stand  huddled  on  the  steps  l.  and  all 
speak  together.) 


Rose. 
Carrick. 

Rufus. 
Walter, 


It  was  certainly  here. 

Never  knew  it  was  an  alarm-clock 

as  well 

Saw  him  getting  in  the  window! 
By  Jove.    Nobody  here! 


THE  CHAMELEON.  71 

(A  pause.    Then.) 


Rose.        1     Honora  !- 
RuFUS.       I     Justin ! — 


Walter.    1     Honora ! 

Carrick.  J     Most  unexpected  !- 


Walter.    In  the  name  of  wonder,  Honora!  You 
look  as  if  you'd  been  out  all  night ! 
Honora.    I — I  have! 

(Thomas  Ph.  D.,  appears  l.  on  the  upper  step,  clad 
in  a  bath-robe  and  spectacles  and  with  an 
umbrella  in  his  hand.) 

Thomas.  Oh,  dear  me,  how  perfectly  extra- 
ordinary!   I  hope  I  don't  intrude. 

{They  turn.) 

RuFUS.  By  Jove,  no.  Glad  to  see  you.  Had  no 
idea  you  were  staying. 

Thomas.  Er — no.  You  see  I  stayed  later  than 
I  intended.  And  I  missed  the  last  train.  So  I  came 
back ;  and  Walter  very  kindly  put  me  up — and  lent 
me 


Walter.    Don't  mention  'em 

Thomas.    And  lent  me 

Walter.    Yes,  yes! 

{They  all  turn  back  to  Justin  and  Honora.) 

Thomas.     But  I  had  no  idea  you  were  in  the 
habit  of  rising  so  early ! 
Justin.    In  a  word, — Honora's  burned  out! 


72 


THE  CHAMELEON. 


(HoNORA  hides  her  laughter  in  the  portiere.     A 
speedy  chorus  follows.) 


Rose. 


RUFUS. 


Honora !      Dear- 
thing  !     And 
wrapt    in    a 
curtain ! 
By     Jove,     can't 
understand 
it. 
Walter.      Never    heard     a 

I  thing. 

Carrick.  I  _Never  heard  a 
sound  all 
night. 


{They  rush  to 
the  windows 
and  look  out, 
for  signs  of  fire 
in  the  neigh- 
borhood.) 


Justin.  — I'll  tell  you  the  whole  thing.  But  not 
a  word  until  she's  fed  and  rested.  Go,  get  up 
Thomas;  Honora's  cold  and  hungry. 

Chorus.  — Of  course! — Quite  right. — Never 
heard  a  thing ! — Don't  see  how  it  happened. 

Thomas.  {Lifting  his  nose,  like  a  pointer)  Yes, 
yes, — I  smell  smoke !    I  smell  smoke  distinctly. 

Rose.  {Hurrying  to  Honora)  Oh,  how  self- 
absorbed  we  were.    I  can't  believe  it ! 

Honora.    Who  ? 

Rose.  {To  Honora  in  a  joyful  whisper)  I'm 
so  happy!  {Rufus  told  me!  {Aloud)  We  sat  up 
in  the  arbor.  Rufus  and  I.  We — were  talking  it 
all  over.    And  we  quite  forgot  the  hour. 

Rufus.     {Gladly)     Like  a  perfect  Romeo  and 

Juliet;  'Pon  my  word — Saw  the  sun  rise! 1  say, 

did  any  of  you  ever  see  the  sun  rise? 

Rose.  And  only  just  now,  we  thought  we  heard 
somebody  and  we  looked  out  just  in  time  to  see 

Rufus.    See  the  Sun  rise!    {Proudly) 

Rose.    — A  man  going  through  that  window. 


THE  CHAMELEON.  73 

RuFUS.       1     So  we  hurried  back 


Walter.     ]     So  you  roused  us  all  up- 

Carrick.     >    Most  adventurous  morning! 

Thomas.  I  Oh,  dear  me,  how  very  extra- 
j         ordinary ! 

Rose.  (To  Honora)  And  Justin  saved  you! 
And  the  others 

Honora.    All  safe! — Yes,  Justin  saved  me! 

Carrick.     Idyllic  ending,  I'm  sure. 

Honora.    Isn't  it? — Isn't  it  a  good  ending f 

Justin.  (With  authority)  Come.  Make  a  fire. 
Get  something  to  eat.  Bestir,  bestir!  We're  com- 
ing. 

Chorus.  That's  so.  Where's  Thomas  ?  Coffee ! 
Eggs !    Quick.    Tell  us  all  about  it. 

(They  all  scatter  out,  confusedly.) 

Justin.  (Laughing,  and  pointing  to  the  fire- 
place) Honora's  burned  out! — But  it  wasn't  a 
Chameleon !  'Twas  a  phoenix.  And  she  rises  from 
her  own  ashes — to-day!  Oflf  with  your  dark  dis- 
guise, my  chrysalid!  (He  lifts  the  portiere  from 
her  shoulders,  and  ivreathes  the  grape-leaves  in  her 
hair.)  Come,  Truth, — come,  Beggar-maid,  and 
say — 

Honora.     Ah, .good, — good  Morning! 


CURTAIN. 


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